Touched
by AlyshebaFan2
Summary: Murdock gets in over his head, and hilarity ensues.  NOTE: This is a republishing of a series that got deleted by an idiot.  Namely me.
1. Touched

**TOUCHED**

Part One

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2 (AlyshebaFan1 at A-Team TV)

**Rating**: K+ (language, violence, dark references and sarcasm)

* * *

"This is it. The Imperial - best hotel in Hong Kong."

Murdock flinched when he saw the gigantic lions, just like the ones at the Forbidden City, standing guard at the hotel's doors. Something about the way their eyes were following him made him want to duck behind B.A. until they were past them and inside the lobby. But he pretended to be brave and kept up pace with Face, looking around uneasily. This place was _way_ out of his league. Marble floors. Vast crystal chandeliers. Giant Ming vases with pictures of dragons and lions and really angry-looking salamanders. Annoying Chinese man-tuning-a-piano music was playing from somewhere. The lights were soft, though, and not as panic-inducing as the fluorescent lights at the VA and he counted that as one minor plus.

He was more comfortable in miserable little fleabag motels and mental hospitals. Not five-star hotels. Just being in Hong Kong made him anxious – the food was scary, the politics terrifying, and the traffic nightmare-inducing even on a Sunday morning. He had spent the last three days at that sleazy, dirt-cheap motel with the rest of the team, half-listening to Hannibal work out the plan and fighting off about fifty anxiety attacks an hour, crammed into a tiny room he had to share with Face. He was actually looking _forward_ to going back to the VA at this point, where he'd get a nice padded cell and some peace.

"Murdock, you're translating," Hannibal informed him as they entered the lobby.

"I…I am? Oh. Right. _Si_. _Muy bueno._"

"Mandarin, Captain, Mandarin" Hannibal said firmly, but he didn't sound exasperated. "But first things first – Face, take Murdock here to the men's room and get him cleaned up and into that suit."

"Suit?" Murdock squeaked, even more uneasy now. He had been hoping that the suit in the plastic liner was for somebody else. B.A., maybe. It suddenly hit him that this was why he was being required to change clothes now – if they had dropped this bomb on him back at the hotel, he would have succumbed to the last anxiety attack and would have curled up in the bathtub, screaming and refusing to let anybody touch him. Now, he was in a public place and screaming fits wouldn't work. He doubted Chinese mental hospitals worked along the same lines as the ones back in America. Maybe a few years ago it would have been okay. But ever since Britain had handed the city over to a bunch of hard-eyed murderers, things were probably very, very different.

"Yep."

Murdock gave Face a wary look and started backing away, but B.A.'s narrow gaze kept him from sprinting off in terror just the same. He didn't wear _suits_. He wore cargo pants and Hawaiian shirts and hi-top Converse sneakers to everything, including weddings and bar mitzvahs. He hadn't worn a suit since his mother's funeral, and the one Face was carrying looked expensive. _Armani_, for the love of all that was holy. Until he'd met Face, he hadn't known what Armani was. Thought it was a type of refrigerator, actually.

"It's all right, man," Face said reassuringly, sensing Murdock was on the verge of a meltdown. "I think we'll try a haircut, too. You need to look the part, and it won't take much – the ladies'll be swoonin' over you, bud."

"_Swooning_? Nobody swoons over me. And what part? I'll do Mercutio this time, thanks – I did Romeo last round, back at the VA. That poison I had to take tasted just like aqua vite. I hate that stuff." Off three exasperated gazes, he blew out his cheeks and gave up – sometimes these guys had _no_ sense of humor. "I was just gonna translate. I was gonna translate and we'd get that guy out of this hotel and in the truck and I'd fly us back to Tokyo and then I'd go back to the booby hatch. You didn't say nothin' about lookin' no damn' _part_."

"Well…" Hannibal shrugged. "The best laid plans of mice and men and…er…all that other stuff…"

"'The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray', and believe you me, they _do._" Murdock said, his voice shaking. "Robert Burns. And that doesn't exactly give me a good feeling…with all due respect."

"I hate when he quotes Burns," Face muttered. "Why'd you have to bring up _Burns_, Hannibal? Next it'll be 'Scots Wa' Ha'e Ye' and he'll be paintin' his face blue again."

Hannibal looked a little disconcerted, and frowned at Murdock, his expression serious, and Murdock mentally yanked himself out of his panic attack. Just like always, Hannibal's gaze was steady and respectful, rather than pitying, or furious, like so many other people looked when they talked to Murdock. No matter how manic Murdock got, Hannibal always took him seriously, listened to him, and _believed_ in him. Until he'd met up with these men, nobody had believed in him at all, except maybe God, but that had been what his mother had told him and in the past year or so at the VA, he had wondered if she was just yanking his chain.

"Captain, you have your orders. I was going to send Face in for this part, but looking at the layout, he would stand out like…er…a peacock amongst crows, and he doesn't speak Mandarin anyway. You…well, you won't stick out. Go with Face and cooperate. Got it?"

"Mfhghh…" Murdock grimaced, thought about murders of crows, and swallowed a series of vile Mandarin curses, including one about ducks and rectums that was _really_ rude. He followed Face across the marble lobby and into the men's room, which consisted of stalls the size of rent-controlled apartments in New York City. He was shoved into a stall with the new suit, with orders to change into it posthaste. Once dressed, Murdock allowed Face to sit him down on the toilet and winced as the conman began clipping his hair, after putting a toilet seat liner over his shoulders, to keep hair off the suit.

"I ain't had a haircut in years," Murdock said. "I usually just…singe it off."

"Liar." Face was finished with the trim in minutes. "Or at least I hope you're lying about that." He bent down and looked directly at the pilot, whose shaggy look was changed considerably – he only needed a good shave and the transformation would be complete. A couple more snips and Face seemed pleased. The conman then grappled Murdock into the silk tie, with the pilot cursing and muttering the whole time, until it was perfect. "Right. Better. C'mon. I have a razor here, and I want you to _shave_. Here's some cream. C'mon, no griping this time, and no foam art on the mirrors." He dragged Murdock out of the stall and to the sinks.

Murdock observed a tiny man dressed a lot like an organ grinder's monkey standing at the end of the line of sinks, apparently waiting for a tip but also – apparently, and very conveniently, to think about it – blind, if the sunglasses were any indication. He blinked and snatched up the electric razor from Face, applied the shaving cream and began working away at his stubble. In a few minutes, even Face appeared to be satisfied, and Murdock looked at himself in the mirror. He swallowed and felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. That wasn't _him_ in the mirror. The scruffy, shaggy, unkempt man of just a few minutes ago had been replaced by a stranger: tall, lean, dark-hair, dark greenish eyes, and even kind of…handsome, in that expensive suit and green silk tie that actually did a lot for his eye color.

No, not handsome, Murdock thought, shaking his head. Nobody had ever called _him_ handsome. Much less swooned when they saw him. Screamed, yeah. Attacked him with sharp implements or needles, definitely, or shot bullets at him. But nobody ever got the vapors when they looked at _him_. He glanced at Face, and felt an unfamiliar flash of envy. Women got on him like mustard on a tie at a county fair. Women looked at Howling Mad Murdock and…pushed him out of the way, so they could look at Face.

"Not bad," Face nodded. "Stand up straight. Put on your best behavior, and you'll get a lollipop, 'kay? C'mon, be a trooper here, buddy. Hannibal wants this done as soon as possible, so we can go _home_. You get out there –" He pushed Murdock back out the door and into the hallway. "And when I give you the signal, you get over to that front desk and start talkin' to the concierge, and we'll do the rest. Got it?"

"_Si_," Murdock muttered, and stepped aside as Face made his way back across the lobby and out the doors. He watched the doors for the signal, and as soon as he saw the flash from Face's infra-red pointer, he turned and walked over to the desk, straightening the silk tie, feeling like he was about to choke, and put his mind into Mandarin mode, but as he approached the desk, it was clear the tall, slender dark-haired woman at the desk would be speaking English – a language James 'Howling Mad' Murdock had far more trouble with. She was talking in a soft, posh-sounding English accent to a little man who bore an unsettling resemblance to Jabba the Hutt.

* * *

Alexandra Graham put on her best smile and pretended that the grouchy little man in front of her wasn't easily the ugliest, most ill-mannered human being she'd ever dealt with. Considering she had dealt with politicians, rock stars, actors, celebrities and multi-billionaires for the past four years, that was saying a lot. This man – Mr Renfrew – was a little wart-shaped fellow with piggy eyes and a mean expression and he had complained about everything in his hotel room, from the view to the soap to the reception on his television and now, the _towels_.

"Mr Renfrew, I'm sure that we will do all we can to accommodate you," she said, while her eyes said 'And if that fails, we'll be very happy to throw you off the roof with much force and considerable glee'. "We apologize for the inconvenience, but I'm sure that the bath towels can be replaced, and will be one-hundred percent _pure_ Egyptian cotton, and well over four-hundred thread count, at the very least." The little man nodded, but she knew he'd soon find something else to squawk about, and put a curse on him as he strutted away, clearly accustomed to bullying people around so long as they had no means of retaliating. _May you develop a contagious skin rash and may your socks always fall down around your ankles...and may they always be white socks at that, you odious, silly wee man._

It was little wonder that Alexandra Graham had, over the past few years, developed a strong distaste for men and their vast egos that rarely was in proportion to their tiny little _parts_ and even tinier brains and their general viciousness. Her eyes narrowed as Mr Renfrew strutted away, having been joined by a tall, blonde human Barbie.

"Uh…'scuse me, ma'am?"

She glanced toward the end of the front desk and put on her 'Welcome to Hong Kong's Imperial Hotel' smile, but had trouble holding it. The man standing there looked very uncomfortable – shy as a mistreated colt, and clearly ready to bolt for the doors if anybody touched him. He was wearing an expensive Armani suit, but didn't look like he belonged in it. She suspected he'd look far happier in jeans and a T-shirt.

"Yes, sir? Can I help you?" she asked kindly, stepping a little closer to him, sensing nothing threatening about him…not really. No one else was at the desk, and she was intrigued enough to neglect her duties and not watch the front door. She mentally pulled herself up and glanced toward the door, but there was no activity out there. She looked back at him and couldn't help admiring the way he carried himself – there was a kind of dignity about him, but there was something else…something she recognized instinctively, but couldn't quite put her finger on.

"I…uh…room. I need a room."

She looked at him more closely. Dark, slightly rough-cut hair, green eyes, tanned, along with a Southern drawl that frankly was her very favorite kind of accent on a man. He was probably not quite forty, clearly in excellent condition, if a little _thin_, but really kind of good-looking, in a hard-lived and maybe even damaged kind of way. "I'll be happy to help you, sir. What is your name, please?"

He looked momentarily confused by the question, then shook himself slightly. "James."

Alexandra smiled again. "James…?"

"James. Um…Mur…phy. James Murphy." He seemed to settle a little, and he had a sweet, almost boyish smile above a nice chin. He glanced to his left, down the hallway. "How much are the rooms here?"

"We start at six hundred dollars a night for the smallest suites, and a bit higher as the size and amenities go up."

"'A bit higher' meaning several hundred dollars more each, right?" He nodded and she looked down at his hands. Long, strong fingers, with brawl-reddened knuckles, but his nails looked ragged, and it was clear that he wasn't the executive type. Interesting, she thought, but she knew never to make snap judgments about anybody.

"I'm afraid so."

He moved along the front desk, so that she had to turn her head to keep him in her line of vision, with the doors right behind him. "And…uh…what is your name?" he asked her, once he was directly in front of her, and she faced him squarely.

She had to cough to cover a laugh. He was clearly no good at flirting. What was he, a monk out on the town for the first time? His voice even sounded slightly raspy, as if unaccustomed to use. "My name is Alexandra."

"That…that's a pretty name."

She raised her eyebrow. It was a tired line, but there was a sweet sincerity about how he said it that further peaked her curiosity. She glanced down, over the desk, and noted he was wearing work-roughed boots. He had no suitcase. Not even an overnight bag. What was going on here?

"Thank you. So are you interested? In a room, I mean?" she asked, unable to resist putting a little lilt to her voice – an inflection she would never use around a guest if the manager was within earshot, and she was gratified when James Murphy's cheeks pinked.

"Uh…" He glanced down the hallway again, and this time she looked that way as well. She looked back at James Murphy and noted his nervousness. He took a deep breath. "I…yeah. A room. I'd like to check in…for…for the…uh…night."

"Very good, sir. Just one moment, please." Never say 'okay' to the guests, the hotel manager had pounded into the staff's skulls, every day, until they all wanted to kill the little jerk and never said 'okay' at home, either. 'Okay is a vulgar Americanism!' None of the hotel employees, many of whom were bilingual and from every corner of the world, had appreciated that comment from the English-born hotel manager, whom they all loathed with a passion and had thought about dropping heavy things onto for years now. But his _prickness_ had made the Imperial the premier hotel of the Pacific Rim, and anybody who was anybody stayed there, from Kings to Presidents to Brad Pitt and myriad others with equally low IQ scores. She glanced up at Mr Murphy and suspected that he was one of the 'anybodys' that surprised you. She logged into the hotel system and looked back up at him, smiling warmly. "Do you have a major credit card?"

"Um…" He reached into his back pocket and winced. "Oh." A pained expression crossed his face, and she could have sworn she heard him say a four-letter word in _Mandarin_. He spoke Mandarin? He barely seemed capable of speaking at all…

"Is there a problem, Mr Murphy?"

"I seem to have left my wallet at…uh…somewhere else." He looked left again, and so did she. Four men were walking across the lobby, with a vaguely familiar man walking in front, his gait rather stiff, with an aggrieved expression on his face, but he was keeping his gaze forward, looking neither right nor left. One of the men – a handsome guy with flashing blue eyes - glanced toward the front desk, and as he pushed the door open, Alexandra's eyes widened when she glimpsed a gun at his belt. A _gun_? Panic surged through her and she looked at Mr Murphy again.

"Actually, I think I left it in my limo," Mr Murphy told her, determinedly catching her gaze again. "I suppose I'll just have to go get it. Excuse me." He stepped back from the desk, gave her a polite little bow from the waist and walked away. Alexandra reached for the phone, and was starting to dial, when a hand clamped down on hers. "Don't. Don't even move. Look at me. Smile big for daddy and look like you're havin' just a great big ol' _peck_ of fun."

She looked up and her face was just inches from Mr Murphy's, and she felt that all-too-familiar flash of terror before she looked directly into his eyes. They were green, touched with gold and hazel, and she could smell his aftershave. It wasn't an offensive smell – instead, it was entirely masculine – primal. The shy, awkward colt of a few minutes ago was gone – replaced by a cool, steely purposefulness that unnerved and further intrigued and alarmed her. In fact, there was something almost…_erotic_ about his transformation from nervous to commanding. She swallowed and her gaze dropped to his mouth, and she felt her cheeks warming. She raised her eyes back to his again and found him studying her intently, and then his gaze dropped to _her_ mouth.

Must be the late hour, she told herself. She had been up more than twenty-four hours, covering a sick employee's shift. Otherwise, she wouldn't be feeling little electric currents from his hand to hers, and she wouldn't be wondering if his hair would feel soft against her fingertips. Right. Definitely sleep deprivation. Alexandra _never_ would have reacted to a man when she was fully alert and in control.

"Just keep quiet. It's okay. I promise. I assure you – no harm will befall you, ma'am. I'd never allow it." He smiled at her and she obeyed his order to smile big. "Good girl. All's well. Another nasty man off the streets, too."

"W-What?" she gasped, her swirling thoughts coming into focus. His hand was still on hers, holding it down on the phone receiver. He glanced around, noting that no one else was in the lobby. Alexandra saw a red flash from outside the hotel doors – just a tiny little point of light that went off one, two, three times. Mr Murphy glanced back, seeing the light, and nodded.

"Very good, baby. Thanks. Tell security the cameras should work just fine – we just scrambled the signal for a few minutes. No harm done." He released her hand and stepped back. He gave her another little bow and turned around. She reached for the phone again, and dialed security. When she glanced up, however, Mr Murphy was gone and the lobby was empty.

Moments later, six armed security guards rushed into the lobby, guns drawn and shouting, and all merry hell broke loose.


	2. Hawaii

Title: **TOUCHED**

Chapter 2

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

* * *

"Look at that, Mr Chow. That's the sixth time you've been on TV in the past hour. Must be a record." Murdock popped another Froot Loop into his mouth and crunched cheerfully. "Maybe they'll show that video for you in prison. Keep the guards entertained."

Their prisoner – soon to be dumped into the loving arms of the Tokyo Police – only glared at him. He was tied up securely, his mouth gagged. Murdock had translated his curses at them for a while, but had grown weary of so much profanity and declared it not only unimaginative but downright impolite. Hannibal had agreed and had ordered Face to shut the little man up. Now, Murdock was watching the English-language channel in their hotel room in Tokyo, wishing they'd show some racing or something more interesting that just the news, which always depressed him.

"For such a wee little man, you do cause a lotta trouble," Murdock said, finally giving up on excitement on the television. Chow glared back at him, still dismayed that the rough-looking man with ragged fingernails and a Southern accent could speak such flawless Mandarin. "Killin' folks, and sellin' drugs to kids, messin' up their lives. Ain'tcha gotta nothin' better to do with your time? There's…origami." He held up the paper swan he had crafted. "And Chinese checkers. And those finger handcuffs, and that game they play with tiles…what's it called again? Mah-Jong! I like that game."

"If you don't shut up, Murdock, I'm'a gag _you_," B.A. finally snapped from his place at the table, where he and Face were playing cards. Murdock looked only vaguely affronted and went back to his Froot Loops. Hannibal gave Murdock a kind pat on the shoulder as he passed by, and took a seat with the others.

The pilot flipped the channels until he came across a Japanese soap opera. He sat back and watched it for several minutes, and became intrigued as a woman on the screen stood in a room with two sobbing children. She was packing and talking to them, finally kneeling down to hug them, tears pouring down her face.

"She's leaving," Murdock said, to no one in particular. Face looked up, though, and looked at the screen, then at Murdock, preparing himself for another flash of brilliant insanity. The pilot nodded. "She's telling the kids that they're the women of the house now, and that it's not their fault, but she and their daddy can't get along and so she has to go away. She loves them, and she's sorry, but sometimes grown-ups have to go away." Murdock ate another Froot Loop and looked at Mr Chow, who was staring at him with an expression of bewilderment and disgust.

"How do you know what she's saying?" Face asked, unable to bear it any longer.

"Oh, you can tell, though I'll grant that women are better at this kinda thing than I am. Women know _soaps_. And I also speak Japanese, so it wasn't that hard to figure out. But I've watched soap operas, back at the VA. Most of the time, I'm sittin' around wondering who the hell Jillian is and why the Spring Ball has been going on for three weeks, and how'd that kid go from toddler to rebellious sixteen-year old in less than two years. You know. Soaps."

"Mff mfhn if fnng infne!" Mr Chow tried to scream.

"Don't I know it," Murdock nodded in agreement. "I got the certificate an' everything. But I ain't the one bound and gagged, am I? That ain't happened since…since…well, Mosul, really, and believe me, you're havin' a far better time than I did, Chow-Chow."

The three men at the table looked at Murdock, and Face paled as he watched his friend carefully, but Murdock was happily eating his Froot Loops and had changed the channel again, this time finding a truly horrible cartoon of what looked like a talking bowel movement uttering profundities to children. Finally, Face broke the tension. "Where'd you learn Japanese?"

"Here'n there. Good Lord…I'm tellin' ya, man, Japanese television is horrible. Look at this – you don't even want to know what that thing is sayin'. Profound, my bent-over old granny…" Murdock shook his head, clearly appalled, and Face breathed a sigh of relief, but he suspected that the pilot would be having nightmares that night. They all looked at each other, and nodded. One of them would take up the watch and, when the time came, give Murdock the pills that would declaw and defang the monsters of his nightmares…at least a little.

"All right," Hannibal said, having glanced at the TV and recoiled. He had had enough. "Time to make the drop. Boys, please escort Mr Chow to the SUV and we'll be moving out."

"Aye." Face stood up, glad to be finished with the card game with B.A., who was far too easy a mark. He glanced at Murdock, who was unbeatable at poker even when drunk, on a dozen pills or in a bad mood. "Ready to go buddy?"

"Yep!" Murdock bounced to his feet and followed the men outside into the sticky Tokyo night. Hannibal was carrying Mr Chow, who had given up struggling. He seemed resigned to his fate by now, and was eager to get away from the crazed man who ate Froot Loops and spoke better Mandarin that even he did.

* * *

"So what did this man say to you, exactly?"

Alexandra sighed. She had told the police and hotel security and possibly every member of the cleaning crew, night staff, morning staff and several reporters what James Murphy had said, and what he looked like. 'Tall, dark, handsome in a rough kind of way, Armani suit, work boots, ragged fingernails, green eyes, rather sweet smile, nice chin, a little nervous, and spoke Mandarin'. Probably not even really dangerous, but clearly he traveled with a dangerous crowd, and speaking of 'dangerous crowds', hadn't they taken Mr Long Chow away, without even one shot fired or a raised voice? One of the most vicious and dangerous crime lords in all of Southeast Asia was now behind bars in Tokyo, where he would likely be for a long time, or at least until the Chinese government got hold of him.

"He said to smile big for daddy and that no harm would befall me," she said for about the thousandth time. She glanced at the hotel manager, who looked like he was about to pop a vein, he was so angry. Not because Alexandra might have been harmed, but because the hotel's reputation had any chance of being sullied. _Sullied_, she thought with another hysterical urge to laugh. _I got sullied once. Would you like to hear all about it? How do you think I ended up here? Coroner's Inquests would cause anybody to flee their country and redo themselves entirely. Extreme Makeover, Honeymoon Disaster Edition! _

The police detective shook his head and finally turned to Mr Pettigrew, who had refused to let her go home and rest in spite of how exhausted she was. Alexandra cracked a little – she wasn't above begging when necessary. There were far worse things to be pushed into. "Mr Pettigrew, I'm really tired…"

"Yes, the poor woman has been through enough. She's told us all she knows, and the security signal was scrambled so well that we'll never figure out who those men were – and Long Chow _is_ in prison, finally. Just let her go home." The detective looked thoroughly tired of Mr Pettigrew as well.

Darien Pettigrew wrinkled his long nose and finally sighed. "Fine. We will expect you back here at ten o'clock this evening, of course."

Alexandra looked at her watch, noting it was five o'clock now. She stood up slowly, wobbling a little on her high heels, and grabbed her purse. The police detective at least looked sympathetic, but there was really nothing he could do on her behalf. She grabbed her purse and left Mr Pettigrew's office, closing the door behind her. She made her way slowly down the hallway (the Hall of Doom, as it was called by other employees, is it was the only way to or from his office) and to the stairs. She was greeted by Milford, the head butler of the hotel, with whom she had developed a carefully constrained friendship over the years.

"Alexandra! Are you all right? Were you hurt last night?" he asked her, genuinely concerned. She recalled that Milford had served in Desert Storm, years ago, and had come back from Afghanistan only two months ago. Weird that he'd take a job as a hotel butler, because frankly he looked and carried himself like a true British soldier, and a war injury had left him with a limp. Perhaps he preferred the graciousness of the environs over desert heat and those scream-inducing camel spiders. She could hardly blame him for that.

"Hurt? No. Of course not." She blinked and shook her head. "I came through it smelling like a rose."

"Have you heard from your grandmother?" he asked her. "I'm sure she'll have heard about this incident by now…"

"Not lately. I've got to get home. Thank you, Milford." She touched his arm and smiled before walking away, down the intimidating corridor, until she reached the hotel lobby. She looked around, breathing in deeply, and continued across. A few police were still hanging around, but for what reason she didn't know. There had been rumors that the men who had removed Long Chow from his room had been the notorious A-Team, and she had to laugh at that. If James Murphy was a member of the A-Team, she was the bloody Queen of England.

But whoever those men were, and whoever he worked with, he was clearly a damaged person – she was still thinking about her first impression of him: a shy, mistreated colt. And she also couldn't get his green eyes out of her head. Really strange, she decided as she got into a cab and started toward her apartment. She avoided men like the plague, with excellent and justifiable reasons, but one green-eyed mystery man had made her think such completely uncharacteristic thoughts. She looked down at the hand he had held on the phone receiver and her cheeks pinked. Stupid, stupid girl, she told herself. You got caught once. Never again.

* * *

Murdock was downright chipper when he got behind the yoke of the little jet. A puddle-jumper, it was called. Only the Pacific, from Tokyo to Honolulu, was not what was properly called a puddle. It was thousands of miles of open ocean, with one scheduled stop for refueling (he had insisted on that, to Face's irritation, but he had been adamant). It was not far from where Amelia Earhart had disappeared in fact, and they had a big unconscious guy in the back, so he knew it was imperative that nothing went wrong. It was, after all, getting awfully hard to haul Bosco around these days, since the Sergeant had discovered Murdock's cooking talents. It'd be even harder to tread water with him hanging off their shoulders. Not to mention sharks…

"Everything in good order, Captain?" Hannibal called to him. He and Face were struggling to get B.A. lashed into the seatbelts.

"Hunky dory." Murdock took a sip of his Dr Pepper and glanced down at his watch. They would be in Honolulu before dawn, he calculated. He'd have time to think about whatever he wanted. And he wanted to think about that woman back at the Imperial. She had been far prettier than the women he generally had to talk to. Of course, most of those women were hardened VA nurses, or grim psychologists and doctors. The last woman he'd spoken to, before Alexandra, had been a humorless cow who had told him that a lobotomy was very definitely looming in his future.

All because he had told her she looked like Dennis Franz, _including_ the mustache. Geez, he was a good actor and all – you would think she would have at least considered it a compliment. But women were weird that way. They blither about how they're the equal of any man, and that they can play with the boys, and should get the same treatment and the same pay, blah blah blah equalitycakes, but point out the obvious to one of them and next thing you know, they're talking about removing your frontal lobes.

But that woman at the Imperial - Face would have said she was 'hot', a term Murdock didn't like much, but in this case, it was true. Tall and slim and graceful, like a ballerina, with an aura of toughness about her, as if she'd been through a few wringers herself, but he had sensed she had a sense of humor, too. He had never liked grim, angry women with loud voices, who shouted and cursed and _demanded_ and tried to prove their 'equality' with men by behaving like the worst ones they could find. He even had a liking for English accents. Alexandra of the Imperial Hotel had looked and sounded like a _lady_, in the old-fashioned sense. Good manners and a quiet voice, soft and sweet and kind, eager to make other people comfortable, and not cruel and selfish, like Beasts he had known.

"Hey, bud. Feelin' okay?" Face sat down directly behind Murdock and leaned in, interrupting his thoughts. The pilot pushed away his irritation and grinned.

"Yep. I always feel good when I'm flyin', y'know."

"Yeah. Just don't flip this one over, okay? I'm hopin' for a nap."

Murdock nodded and was grateful when Face sat back in his seat and settled in. Murdock, who could go without sleep for days, relaxed and set the coordinates for the Hawaiian Islands. He relaxed his mind and settled his thoughts again on Alexandra of the Imperial, wondering what she was doing. Was she returning home from work now, greeted by people who loved her and were glad to see her? Or did she live alone…or did she have a boyfriend? Probably. Girl looks like that, she probably has a dozen dangling on a string.

James Murdock had few really beautiful, _good_ things in his life to think about, and so he allowed himself this one little luxury, and was determined to tuck that memory away in the corner of his mind, to bring out when he was feeling lonely, or when things were really bad at the VA. It was something no one could take from him, and he would fight anybody who tried. Include Dr Denise Franz (as he had started calling her) and her surgical implements. He'd fight her right dirty if he had to.

"Hey, Facey, tell me…Hawaii's the one that's shaped kinda like a kidney, right?"

* * *

Alexandra sat down on the edge of her bed and smiled at her son, who was bouncing around the room, delighted to see his Mum again. "Are we going to go to the park today?" he asked her, once he had settled down a little.

"I'm afraid not, baby," she said. "I have to go back to work soon."

He looked disappointed, but sadly, he was used to that, and Alexandra felt another wave of guilt crashing over her. For four years now, she had been in Hong Kong. She had given birth to her son in Solvang, California, on the Fourth of July, ironically enough. Independence Day, except that while she was definitely independent, she certainly didn't feel free. She had a child to raise on her own, no family, no friends – at least, none at the time – and at the time had just a little money left over in a trust fund her grandfather had set up for her.

She had gotten the job at the Imperial shortly after Nicholas' birth, and bought a one-way ticket to China. The job paid well, and as a result she was able to hide in plain sight and afford a flat that was slightly larger than a closet. "Better peace with herbs and bread than feasting with strife" was a proverb she thought of a lot, living in the tiny apartment. She had _enough_. Sometimes next to nothing, but it was enough, and so long as her son was healthy and happy and didn't seem to be headed toward a life of crime, she would eat her herbs and bread and be content.

If she felt lonely, she didn't talk about it with anyone, and she _had_ formed friendships in the past four years. She had been alone in the world for quite a while, with only Nicholas. His birth had meant goals and horizons and ambition for her, a young woman who had not until then even held a job or needed to. She had actually told her grandmother that she had literally no marketable skills, but Cecelia Eddington had pointed out that as the daughter of an officer in the British Navy, she had the qualifications fit for command, and as the granddaughter of one of the most ruthless men ever to breath air, she had the cunning to bluff her way through the rough spots if necessary. Graham steel, Collingwood nerve, Cecelia had said. And considering she _hated_ Alexandra's grandfather to the point of mania, that was quite a compliment.

Alexandra didn't feel terribly commanding or clever now. She was exhausted, and wanted to curl up her chenille blanket and hide from the bleak world outside. Her feet were killing her, and in three hours she had to go back to work. Lately, Mr Pettigrew had been pushing her hard, determined to see just how much she could take before he finally gave her a permanent position as _daytime_ concierge. That would mean a move up the ladder of the hotel hierarchy, and even better pay, and it would also mean she could stop paying her next-door neighbor, Mrs Donnelly, a high rate for night-time babysitting. It might even mean moving into an apartment the size of a _walk-in_ closet. It would mean spending more time with her son, who in spite of what everybody said, needed his mother more than he needed for her to have a 'fulfilling career'.

* * *

"Home sweet home!" Face crowed, throwing his duffle bag onto his bed. He was heading toward the shower, but glanced back at Murdock, who was standing in the doorway, looking uneasy. "What's the matter, bud?"

"I guess you'll be takin' me to the VA tomorrow morning?"

Face stopped. Not good, he thought. Murdock hates that VA. Hates how they treat him, how they talk down to him, like he's stupid. Hell, I hate it even worse, mainly because it makes him so miserable. "Uh…hey, why don't you stay here for a couple days? You can watch TV…cook…uh…there's a swimming pool. We'll find some other place to…er…"

"Put me," Murdock finished for him, and nodded, trying to look like it didn't bother him. "It's okay. You can take me back tomorrow. I'll deal."

"Hey, it's okay. I can call in a favor or two, get you to a better place this time 'round. Some place…uh…nicer…" The promise was a lame one, and Face knew it. How many other mental hospitals were around Los Angeles, where Murdock could be treated with some kind of dignity and compassion? His madness wasn't his fault, after all, and it didn't actually show itself that often. Usually, he was just _eccentric_. Face silently cursed the bastards who had scarred his friend. He wished he could go back to Iraq and re-kill the son of a bitch who had done the last, worst damage.

Murdock shrugged and continued down the hall to his own room. Face forgot about his shower for the time being and followed Murdock instead. He found the rangy pilot sitting on the edge of his bed, cracking his knuckles and looking pensive.

"You know, you did a really good job back at that hotel. I only glimpsed that woman, but she was _hot_," Face grinned, hoping the subject would lighten Murdock's mood. He had been strangely down since they had left Honolulu. "You musta charmed her."

"I never charm anybody," Murdock muttered. "I either irritate 'em or scare 'em. Or both. Can I borrow a fiver and go rent a movie?"

"Murdock…" Face tried again. "Why don't you take a shower and go on to bed instead? Get some rest – you've been up a long time, and you're lookin' kinda…ragged." Murdock's recently cut hair was back to its usual out-of-control state, and he was growing his stubble back. To look at him, no one would guess that he was the best damned pilot on the planet, and a great – if dangerous – cook and spoke dozens of languages fluently. Face had tried to figure out if it was possible to be a savant at various things, but couldn't work it out. Ten years now, and he still hadn't figured Murdock out. In fact, he knew very little about the man's past and was almost afraid to try to learn.

"I'm not tired. I wanna rent a movie. Maybe I'll get something boring. A Merchant-Ivory flick, or suchlike. _Remains of the Day_ is a good cure for insomnia."

"Do I have to sit up and watch it with you?" Face asked him. He _hated_ period films. Hated chick flicks. But Murdock would sit up on Sunday evenings and watch 'Masterpiece Theatre' and the British comedies, or some flick adapted from a Jane Austen novel, flawlessly imitating their accents and commenting on anything that wasn't canon from the novel involved. It only got fun when Murdock was in a more puckish mood and would mute the sound and challenge Face to join him in supplying improvised dialog for the characters. More often that not, Face would end up laughing so hard his sides hurt.

"Not if you don't want to," Murdock shrugged. Face sighed and handed him the five-dollar bill.

"One movie, Murdock. No X-rated stuff, either."

The pilot looked offended. He had no taste for porn at all. In fact, Face had been surprised to learn that Murdock found the porn to be disgusting and stupid. Last time he had tried to get Murdock to just watch something on Cinemax, he had complained about how unrealistic it all was – 'Nobody falls off a bed like that and doesn't break a hip…but they just keep a-goin'! They're like hamsters!'

Face went back to his room and showered while Murdock was gone. When he went out into the living room, he found Murdock seated on the couch, watching _The Last Emperor_.

"In a Chinese state of mind, eh?" he asked, sitting down next to his friend. He noted that Murdock was drawing something on a sketchpad, and tried to look at the picture, but Murdock moved it away.

"It's a sad movie. I felt like a sad movie tonight."

"Why?" Face asked.

"I dunno. I don't wanna got back to the VA, Face. Please don't take me back. Not…not now." There was no pathetic plea in his voice, but instead only a quiet, undemanding request.

"Okay. You can stay here…it'll be okay." Probably not okay, Face thought. Murdock had his supply of meds, and they did some good for him, but after a while life on the outside spooked him and made him harder and harder to cope with. It wasn't as though he was violent, or vicious, or anything of the sort. He wasn't _twisted_. He was just…damaged. Sweet and harmless and gentle as a lamb, but when the monsters came back and he started hearing things and seeing things, it got pretty rough. Face wondered, for about the millionth time, if anybody ever would be able to really get in there. Get past the monsters and the voices and the shadows and help him.

"Did you know," Murdock said, putting down the charcoal pencil and putting the sketchpad on the coffee table, with the picture down so Face wouldn't see it. "Did you know that in the wild, a man would only live about forty years?"

Face stared at Murdock, bewildered. "I hadn't heard that, no."

"Exactly. Well, I read somewhere that it's only because of antibiotics and preservatives and…I dunno…nasal spray, a man can live well past forty. Some women can do it more than once, in fact. I'm not even forty yet, and I just realized I've only been in the wild for a brief time. First ten years with my Mom, 'til she died. Then it was with the Beasts, 'til I was fourteen, and then it was with my grandparents 'til I was eighteen, and then I was in the Army and then I was in facilities for most of the time, in and out, for the rest. If my numbers are right, I've been out in the wild for roughly three years total."

Face swallowed. "'The Beasts'?"

Murdock didn't seem to hear him. He was watching the movie. After a few minutes, he settled back onto the couch cushions and ran his hand through his hair. Soon, the pilot had fallen asleep, the flickering images lulling him into much-needed rest.

Face picked up the sketchpad and looked at the drawing, and smiled. It was a sketch of a woman – dark hair, wide, expressive eyes, high cheekbones, soft, humorous mouth and a surprisingly firm chin, with a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Not classically beautiful, but her face had character, and strength. He glanced at Murdock, wondering, and then remembered the woman at the Imperial in Hong Kong. Face had, after all, never failed to take note of a good-looking woman, even if he had only seen her for a split second.

If it had been anybody else, Face would have teased him about it. But this was Murdock. Whom he would never tease about anything. Not even a fantasy about a woman he'd never see again.

Face turned off the DVD and shut out the lights. He pulled Murdock's legs up onto the couch, threw a blanker over the silently sleeping pilot and stood for a moment, watching him. "No nightmares, buddy. Just sleep this time. Please…just _sleep_."


	3. The Last Emperor

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 3

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

* * *

Alexandra was awakened by her phone ringing, and was brought to full alertness by her son rolling over and smacking her in the face. He was sound asleep – the kid could sleep through Armageddon – and would remain that way for as long as humanly possible. Since it was Saturday morning and she didn't have to go to work, she had stayed up late and scanned through the movie showtimes, and had found that _Toy Story 3_ was showing just two blocks away. Nick would love that – she had shown him the first two movies last week, and he was rarin' to go see the new one.

Scrambling out of bed, tripping on a pair of shoes, she finally got to her phone. "Alexandra. It's your grandmother."

Cecelia Eddington – Lady Eddington, actually – had a typically aristocratic-sounding voice and an air of command about her that had kept her boisterous and adventure-loving husband, the late 7th Lord Eddington, in line. How she had managed, Alexandra never knew. John Graham, known to the world as 'Pap', had been an Admiral in the British Navy and had made his way up through the ranks on his own merits, with a streak of mischief and disregard for protocol that had often made even the Queen herself giggle. His genteel and to-the-manor-born wife had been his exact opposite, yet they had gotten along wonderfully, to everyone's surprise, considering theirs had been an arranged marriage.

"Hi, Gram. How's life at Kedlington?"

"Lovely. I saw something in the news – you were in some sort of danger, I understand?"

"Not really." Alexandra opened her tiny refrigerator and got out a jug of milk. "Nothing happened. No bloodshed."

"Quite. Well, I think you ought to be aware that your maternal grandfather has been sniffing around here again, and I'm afraid someone may have let something _slip_."

Alexandra froze in her steps. She took a deep breath. "He knows I'm in Hong Kong?"

"The servant who revealed this tidbit was dismissed immediately, I can assure you, but…yes. I'm afraid so. He has already started trying to find you, but I don't know what sort of progress he may have made by now."

"Does…does he know about Nicholas?" she asked softly. She turned and looked across the tiny living room-cum-bedroom at her son, who was still sleeping off last night's pizza bender.

"I don't think so. No one really does, aside from myself and your brothers. How is the little munchkin doing?" she asked affectionately. She had seen her great-grandson twice since his birth, but spoke to him on the phone regularly, and adored him.

"He's wonderful. Growing so fast I can't keep him in underwear. Full of energy and wild ideas, just like Pap. What should I do?"

"I would suggest you leave Hong Kong posthaste, of course. If your grandfather finds out he finally has an heir, he'll take the boy. You can bet on that, darling."

"But…but I just got promoted. I'm head congierge…" She stopped, realizing she sounded utterly self-centered. To hell with being a concierge. To hell with her career. Her son was what mattered, and the silence on the other end of the line indicated that Cecelia was waiting for her granddaughter to stop being foolish. "Right. Right. I…I have to go. I'll go back to California, I guess. If it hasn't burned to the ground yet, anyway."

"Excellent notion. I can help you find an apartment, and will be happy to forward whatever cash you need while you make the transition, and don't you dare argue, young lady. This is for my great-grandson." There was the sound of someone grabbing the phone and another voice came on the line.

"'Allo, dahling!"

"John," Alexandra smiled. Her younger half-brother John, now the 9th Earl of Eddington, had an infectious sense of humor, a great love of racing, women and causing chaos. She could see him in her mind's eye – hair disheveled, clothes that didn't always exactly match properly, and ready to run out the door for another misadventure. He was so much like Pap it was frightening, Cecelia often said. And it was just how it ought to be. He looked and behaved nothing like an earl, but he did have the charming manners required of the British peerage, along with a great sense of duty and decency, no matter how hard he tried to convince people that he was just a scoundrel.

"How's me older sister?" he asked in a terrible Cockney accent. "Philip and Rowan are around here somewhere, but I couldn't get 'hold of them, the two lazy gits."

"I'm all right, I think. I assume Gram filled you in?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Terrible thing. But at least you'll be only half-way 'round the globe now, 'stead of all the way, and perhaps I can come out to see you. I'll bring India along."

"India?" Alexandra rolled her eyes. "Another conquest? Or the whole country? I don't think you can fit that many people in your car."

"Er…no. Not really. This one…well, this one is serious. Pregnant, and serious."

"Oh, dear God. You got one pregnant? I'm surprised you don't have twenty kids dashing about!" Alexandra shook her head in amazement.

"Well, yes, but she's also the new Lady Eddington, so I think she ought to meet her sister-in-law."

Alexandra was astonished and delighted. "You got married? That's wonderful, John."

"And we didn't even _have_ to," John laughed. "She got pregnant on the honeymoon, actually. She's kind of religious – wouldn't let me touch her 'til I got past her father and his rifle and put the ring on her finger. She's lovely and sweet and funny – you'll adore her. I know I do. She's set me quite straight, actually. I still don't dress well, but with her influence, at least my _shoes_ match each other."

"I'm sure she's great," Alexandra laughed. "And remember, John – behind every great man is a woman rolling her eyes."

"Why you cheeky little…wait, Gram wants to talk to you again. Love you!"

The phone was shuffled back to Cecelia. "You'll be leaving Hong Kong soon, I assume?"

"Yes, of course." Alexandra looked around the tiny apartment. "At least I won't have much to pack."

* * *

Murdock had created numerous origami creatures while Dr Franz was talking to him, just so he could ignore her until she finally let him go back to his room. So far, he had a swan, a dragon, an eagle, a turtle (but it looked a little smushed, actually), a cat and a dog. He was thinking of proper names for them as she continued blathering on about his lack of self-discipline, his outbursts, his inability to concentrate, and so on. But when she said 'aggressive behavior', he looked up at her.

"Aggressive? I'm not aggressive."

She frowned at him. Her name was actually Julie Frankowicz, but Captain Murdock kept calling her Dr Franz, and she had given up on making him call her by her proper name. But if she had her way, he would be docilely obeying every command given to him.

"I can certainly put that in my report," she said, tapping a small stack of papers in front of her and giving him a frosty little smile.

He eyed her mustache – it was like a little ginger-color caterpillar, hanging on her upper lip, and it disturbed him immensely - and leaned forward. "So this is how you'll keep me in line, eh? I _react_ to this little edict of yours in any way but to acquiesce to your demands, and it's bye-bye frontal lobes. Right?"

She hated the fact that this man's IQ scores were twice as high as her own. Hated that he spoke so many languages. Hated that he was a decorated pilot and an Army Ranger. Hated that, as far as she could tell, he was faking a lot of his mental problems. Oh, he had plenty of them that were quite real. The screams coming from his room in the mornings were enough to convince anybody of that. But Captain James Quinn Murdock had been pulling a fast one long enough, and Dr Frankowicz was determined to outwit him, once and for all. The threat of a lobotomy seemed to finally be doing the trick – for once, his green eyes weren't sparkling with mischief. Instead, he looked _frightened_. But that didn't last – he was thinking. Another thing that really annoyed her about him – his agile mind. He was the most troublesome patient in the whole damned hospital.

"You really wanna mess with me, Denise?"

"My name is Julie!" she snarled.

"Julie, Denise, Dennis. Whatever." He picked up his origami figures. "A decent shave'd do you a world of good, y'know. Might even improve your personality. Just lemme give ya some advise, okay? You don't mess with me. Nobody does. It ain't healthy."

"Are you threatening me, Captain Murdock?" she asked him harshly.

"Just warnin' ya, Dr Franz."

With that, he left her fuming in her office. Outside in the hallway, he was greeted by two big, hard-looking male orderlies. Butch and Sundance, he called them. There was another orderly that he had nicknamed Al Gore, as the man possessed no personality whatsoever and seemed likely to rob a bank and save a polar bear at the same time. There was Leviathan, the meanest of the orderlies, who frequently got out the taser when the patients got too rowdy, and then there was Gator and Stinky and Bob. Bob wasn't too bad. Dumb, but nice enough.

"Captain," Butch said, moving alongside him as he made his way to his room. "I hear you're up for a lobotomy. Now won't that be interestin'? You'll just sit around, droolin' and paintin' pictures that no one can recognize."

"Is that so? I guess you had yours some time ago then, huh, Butch?"

Butch's eyes narrowed. Sundance moved around and blocked Murdock's path. The pilot sighed and stood still, looking up at the burly man. He had been around far meaner, more violent men in his life, from the age of ten up. These guys were pussycats compared to the The Beasts, or the Taliban, and those bastards who'd captured him in Mosul. But these guys were not terribly bright – stupid and mean were always a bad combination. He eyed Butch and Sundance carefully, sizing them up.

Butch's attention was diverted then by someone coming up the hallway, toward them. Murdock glanced back and was startled to see Face, dressed up like a doctor, holding a clipboard. "Ah, Captain Murdock, we've been looking for you."

Murdock pocketed his origami creatures and turned to look at Face, searching for subtle signals. The conman looked Butch and Sundance up and down, seemed to regard them as no one of importance, and clapped Murdock on the shoulder, smiling warmly.

"Captain, your surgery is scheduled for tomorrow. Come along now."

Murdock winced. Butch and Sundance looked amused. Face's eyebrow rose a little. Fortunately, he was quick on the uptake, and nodded.

"That little bone spur on the bottom of your foot – I know it's been bothering you a lot, and we've decided to get on with removing it as soon as possible. Can't have a _decorated_ veteran walking around with a limp, now can we?"

"I ain't ever seen him limp," Sundance growled at Face.

"Yes, and I'm sure you've also never seen a book without pictures, but that doesn't mean they don't exist, right? Come on, Captain. We have to get you prepped."

"Oh, right," Murdock nodded. He began limping after Lieutenant Peck and followed him outside. "Bone spur?" he asked, once they were out on the sidewalk.

"Who the hell were those guys?" Face asked him, rounding on Murdock and looking angry. "Were they threatening you?"

Murdock couldn't understand why Face was so mad. He decided he must have done something wrong. "No. Really, I didn't…I'm sorry." He dug in his pockets and extracted the origami eagle. "Here."

"You didn't do anything!" Face said, running an agitated hand through his hair before finally accepting the eagle and frowning at it, amazed at its intricacy. "Listen…have they been…mistreating you in there, Murdock?"

The pilot shrugged helplessly. It wasn't any worse than any other place he'd been. Most VA psych hospitals were the same – the damaged goods went there, when there was no other place to put them. The PTSD sufferers who just couldn't be _dealt with_ any more. The psychotics who had taken a shine to killing on the battlefield and couldn't live in the world any more. The ones that were so traumatized that they had turned out the lights and checked out for good. Murdock wasn't sure what he was – he had certainly never taken any kind of liking toward hurting people, so he knew he wasn't a psycho. He had once been labeled a schizophrenic, but another psychologist had said that he more likely suffered from PTSD with a touch of hereditary madness that was only exacerbated by mental and physical abuse suffered as a child – the kind of madness that just ran in families but wasn't the kind that King George III had suffered from, so at least Murdock's pee wasn't purple.

Frankly, Murdock never was sure. He looked sadly at Face, still sure he had offended his friend somehow. Face never got angry at him unless he had screwed up.

"Never mind," Face said at last, recognizing that Murdock was only getting confused. "Too much time in that place, I guess. I swear to God, I'll never bring you back here again, buddy. I promise. C'mon. We got a case, and we're meeting with Hannibal and B.A."

* * *

Face was sure he was going to blow a gasket. Murdock was singing as they sped south from L.A. First it had been misheard lyrics, which Murdock informed him were called mondegreens.

_Just call me Angel of the morning, Angel_

_Just brush my teeth before you leave me, baby…_

"Stop it, dammit, you're gonna make me wreck the car."

"Okay, sure, I won't sing mondegreens no more," Murdock told him. He was feeling a lot better, as they got further and further from the VA. "How 'bout a folk song?"

"Murdock, please," Face said weakly, wiping tears from his eyes. "Should I yell 'uncle' now, or something?"

_If I were a carpenter…_

_And you were a lady…_

_Would you have my baby…_

_Made into a dresser?_

"Stop!" Face couldn't take it any more. Driving anywhere with Murdock was a mental and physical challenge. The guy knew _millions_ of songs, and possessed a fine singing voice. Put the top down on the 'vette and Murdock couldn't keep from hunting down a station that played good music (anything from country to heavy metal to classic rock, but never rap, which Murdock described as 'just ugly people cussing') and pretty soon Face was actually trying to sing along as well, though Murdock would berate him rather sharply if he got a word wrong, or was off key.

"Oh, hey, Johnny Cash!" Murdock yelled over the noise of the wind. "Great song. You know, I _would_ move that prison a little farther down the line, too, if I could."

Face glanced at Murdock, feeling a flash of concern for his friend again. The VA's were like prisons for Murdock, no matter how much he and Hannibal tried to convince themselves that they were the best places to put him.

_Put him_. He felt guilt wash over him again. Even the best mental hospitals couldn't deal with that much energy, that much _damage_, and those monsters and demons that came out and chased him around at night. Maybe if Murdock had become twisted and totally out of control, they might find some way to cope with him, but the pilot remained sweet-natured and harmless, and remained just as valuable a member of the team as ever. Some of the places he had been placed could have turned him into a monster, though, and Face still felt a surge of rage every time he thought about some of them. The welts from the tasers, and the scars from electroshock therapy, and the signs of outright, sadistic _abuse_ from orderlies who got their jollies from torturing people like Murdock, who were too innocent to fight back.

"Hey, settle down a little, okay?" Face said kindly. "Our client is kind of a rich guy – lots of dough, and he's gonna pay us really well. If we get the right amount of cash, maybe we'll go someplace you like. Like…uh…"

"Disney World?" Murdock asked hopefully.

"I'm not sure I can take another spin in the teacups, Murdock."

"You just got a bad tummy," Murdock nodded. "I never saw somebody vomit that much before. I think you tossed up a boot."

"Well, you shouldn't have dragged me into that 'Little Taste of India' thing. I'm still tasting that curry, and that was four years ago."

Murdock giggled, and suddenly jumped when they got a little too close to the edge of the cliff they were passing. Face thought it was odd that a pilot could have a fear of heights. But Murdock had dozens of phobias, from ammonia to dental hygiene equipment to the beards on the band members of ZZ Top. Face knew how to distract Murdock from his fears though – find something to talk about. Anything that might peak the pilot's interest.

"Tell me, Murdock," Face asked, turning down the radio and slowing down as they approached a red light. "Who was your last…er…girlfriend? What was she like?"

"Inflatable or flesh and blood?"

Face rolled his eyes and laughed. "Flesh and blood."

"She was tall and I believe she is now wanted by the police."

"For what?"

"Excessive height. Oh, wait…no. Excessive _heists_."

* * *

Hannibal was relieved when he saw the 'vette pull into the parking lot. Murdock jumped right out, a bundle of energy, and started toward the door of the restaurant. Hannibal smiled at his client, a rather belligerent Englishman with a knack for shouting at people. A real charmer, but a charmer with _money_.

B.A., seated next to the Colonel, was becoming annoyed with their potential client and had muttered that they should back out of this one – he had a bad feeling about the whole thing. But money was getting tighter these days and they had bills to pay. It wasn't as though they could get regular jobs to make ends meet. It was either this or turn themselves in, and if they did that, who would take care of Murdock?

They _had_ to take this job.

"Ah, here's the rest of the team, sir," Hannibal told the potential client, who only huffed impatiently.

"About bloody time! For all this trouble, I can expect results, I'm sure!"

Hannibal considered yet another fun and entertaining way of killing Mr Collingwood. Throwing him off the cliff on the other side of the road from the restaurant had its merits, actually. But this guy was _loaded_, and he was asking the team to do a remarkably easy job.

Murdock was first into the restaurant, whistling 'Dixie', and was stopped by the maitre'd, who asked him something that apparently offended the captain.

"Tie? I don't wear ties, mister. What kinda idiot invented those damned things, anyway? Like I'm gonna get up and put on a noose every morning? I don't think so. Why don't I also put on cement shoes and a tutu while I'm at it?"

"Hey, Murdock," Hannibal said, getting up and distracting him before he could start a diatribe at the bewildered Frenchman. "C'mon and sit down. Mr Collingwood, this is our pilot, James Murdock. Sit down, Murdock, and we'll get you something to eat. You must be starving, huh?"

"I am kinda hungry. You want that apple pie?" he asked Collingwood, who was staring at him.

"Take it," Collingwood said, pushing the plate to him. Murdock gobbled up the pie in seconds and requested a menu from a passing waitress. "This is your pilot?"

"Yep. Best damn' pilot on the planet," Hannibal said, giving B.A. a look that clearly said 'No matter what you may think about it'. "Don't worry. He's harmless. Just kinda…"

"Touched," Murdock said with a polite smile, the way his mother had taught him. "Or as they say back home, 'teched'. As in 'a wee bit teched in the 'ead, like'. Sigmund Freud would agree with the term, actually. You know…Freud? Who got quite annoyed with people crude who called him Frood?"

Collingwood looked to be at a loss for words. "This fellow is a madman!"

"Yeppers. Ma'am? I'd like some pot roast and mashed potatoes, please. Lots of butter in the potatoes, too. Not enough butter an' milk, you might as well be eating wallpaper paste, y'know? But too much, it's just as awful, but also runny. Got any green beans? Or okra?"

"Yes, sir," the waitress nodded, succumbing to Murdock's not inconsiderable charm. "And to drink?" she smiled at him. Murdock was always unfailingly polite to people in service, whether waitresses, checkout girls at grocery stores, or flight attendants. They all loved him. His philosophy was that any person who was nice to him but rude to the waitress was _not_ a nice person.

"Dr Pepper, please. And some water, too." He handed the menu back to her. "It's on him," he said, nodding at Collingwood.

Face, finally arriving at the table, puffing a little, sat down and gave Mr Collingwood a grave nod before checking Murdock to make sure the pilot hadn't broken anything or caused anybody to have a nervous breakdown. Only Collingwood looked upset. B.A. and Hannibal looked the same – they were used to it.

"So, Mr. Collingwood," Hannibal said, getting back to the subject at hand. "What exactly are we doing for you?"

"I want you to find my granddaughter." The elegant Englishman took a sip of his tea. He glanced at Murdock, who was now staring out the window, watching the sun sinking into the ocean. He took a photograph out of his breast pocket and slid it across the table to Hannibal. "Her name is Alexandra Graham. Or actually, Lady Alexandra Graham. Daughter of the eighth Earl of Eddington. Of Cornwall."

Hannibal looked down at the photo, and passed it on to Face, whose eyebrows rose. He looked at Hannibal and took a deep breath, trying to silently signal the Colonel, but to no avail. "So when…er…did she go missing?"

"Four years ago. Her husband was killed in a car accident, and she left England and somehow ended up in California. I believe she then went to Asia – China or Japan, I think – but might actually have returned to California in the past few weeks. She lived in Solvang for a while so that might be a place to start looking, as she does have friends there."

"Full of Danes," Murdock said, not looking at them at all. He was still watching the sunset, not terribly interested in what they were saying. He was just air support, if needed. A boring mission. Find somebody. Take them to whoever wanted them. Collect cash. Pass Go. Yadda, yadda, yadda. At best, he'd get a trip to Disney Land again. At worst, he'd have a meltdown and end up in a VA hospital again.

"And what if she doesn't want to be found?" Hannibal asked, looking down at the picture and pushing it across to B.A., who regarded it with only mild interest as he consumed his BLT. "I do find it rather hard to hunt down people who don't want to be found. It's only when they want to be found that they generally _are_ found."

"Not to be too _profound_," Murdock muttered.

"She'll want to, when she realizes that I'm dying and she's going to inherit my money. Quite a lot of money, actually, and a great deal of property in England and across Europe."

Murdock, still not interested but feeling an obligation to contribute _something_, finally looked at Collingwood. "She was married?"

"Yes. Briefly." Collingwood sat back as the waitress returned with Murdock's meal.

"Think maybe she had a kid?" Murdock asked. He graciously thanked the waitress and tucked into his meal. "Could be why she lit out for worlds unknown. Maybe she don't want you near her kid." He tasted the pot roast and found the gravy rather salty, but the potatoes were good, and the okra had been fried to perfection, like okra was meant to be fried. He looked Collingwood up and down and shrugged. "I'm not sure I'd want my kid around you, either."

The other team members, and Collingwood, stared at Murdock. He spotted the photo in front of B.A. and reached across, grabbing it. B.A. shrugged. Murdock looked at the photograph, and his expression changed from mild interest to something neither Face, B.A. or Hannibal had ever seen before. He handed the picture back to Collingwood, regained control of his features, and nodded.

"We'll find her."


	4. Just Call Me Angel

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 4

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

**Note**: The Danish phrases below were found at InterTran. I don't know any Danes. I suppose I could have called Denmark, but I'm not sure of the number. The last time I struggled with anything Danish was when I grappled with winners of the Dansk Derby and Oaks (see ), and that just gave me a headache and high blood pressure. Don't get me started on that.

**Post Note**: I also don't own any part of the A-Team and if anyone associated with the series or the film decide to sue me, they would have better luck squeezing blood out of a turnip.

* * *

Face had finally managed to get a few minutes alone with Hannibal, to tell him about the little _conundrum_ they were in, with regard to one Alexandra Graham. The Colonel listened to his second-in-command with an expression of growing amusement, and finally cut him off before the lieutenant could launch into the potential for full melt-down and stalking.

They were sitting in Face's 'vette, parked in front of a McDonald's. Hannibal was cheerfully eating his breakfast biscuit and Face was trying to just stay calm. It drove him crazy, that Smith never seemed to get excited about anything. Not even when disaster loomed not too far ahead.

"That won't happen, Lieutenant. Murdock isn't that kind of guy, and you know it."

"But it could!" Face almost shouted, desperate. "This could be _really_ bad, Hannibal. I mean, seriously, man, he drew a _picture_ of her."

"Was she tied to anything in the picture?" Hannibal asked mildly. "Dismembered? Blindfolded?"

"No. She looked…okay. I mean, she looked…normal. Like a normal person. But if Murdock liked her, she's probably as much a raving nutter as he is…or can be, anyway. Though to tell ya the truth, he's been quiet the past few weeks. I'd go visit him at the VA and he didn't sic his dog on anybody or try any scientific experiments with the food or start singing 'Gives You Hell', like he did at that VA in Simi Valley, and that nearly caused a friggin' _riot_…"

"The dog is invisible, Face," Hannibal pointed out patiently. "And Murdock is an excellent singer, so why not let the poor guy have some fun?" Sometimes, he thought that Face got along so well with Murdock because he had just as much imagination and love of excitement. Aside from probably being just as touched. Hannibal grinned, knowing Face would pop a vein if he pointed out that little fact. He would vehemently deny having seen that dog a few times himself, but Hannibal knew Face _had_ seen it. It didn't worry Hannibal at all, though. He was just as crazy.

"So what do we do?" Face asked him anxiously.

"We go find Alexandra Graham. We head to Solvang tomorrow, so get out your helmet with the horns, and the breastplates…we're gonna mingle with the Danes."

"Murdock has them," Face muttered as he started up the 'vette and backed out. "And the broadsword, too. He won't let me play with them any more, since I broke his mace."

* * *

Solvang, California had indeed been founded by Danes. Scandinavian art, architecture and souvenirs – flags, decals, stickers, magnets, maces, swords, shields - were all over the place, and Murdock was enjoying himself a great deal as they wandered through a gift shop stocked with kitschy little dolls. He begged Face to buy him one, but the conman was tense and had even gotten snippy with him at one point, so he gave up and sulked while Hannibal asked a few questions. As they left, Murdock tried out his Danish on the storekeeper, who stared at him in astonishment when he greeted her and asked her how she was feeling, his _Dansk_ perfect.

"_Jer indtale Dansk_?" the woman asked him.

"_Ja. Skære ned. Ost_."

She giggled. "_Der hvor gjorde jer lære Dansk_?"

"Uh…Poland." Murdock glanced around him and felt a flash of panic as he noted that his friends had left. He dashed out the door and hopped into the 'vette, displeased because he hadn't even gotten a 'Kiss Me, I'm Danish' button. Not that he was Danish. More Scots, Irish, Welsh, German and several drops of Cherokee. But as he settled back in his seat, he recalled that the Vikings had invaded the British Isles quite a few a times, and the Normans who came later were also of Viking extraction. So in fact, he had plenty of Scandinavian blood after all.

Face gave him a sour look. "Where the hell did you learn Danish, Murdock?" he asked him.

Murdock couldn't figure out what he'd done wrong. He began wringing his hands, his anxiety growing. "I…I learned it…er…somewhere. I don't remember…I'll try to remember. It was…uh…I…"

"Yeah, but you remember that woman from back at Hong Kong, don't you? Alexandra Graham, the one we're lookin' for, right?"

Hannibal gave Face a warning look, but he was on a tangent now.

"I'm warnin' you, Murdock. Don't make trouble. From what that old man told us, she's pretty smart and she'll recognize you. If she does, she'll bolt and we'll be out a big bundle…all 'cause of you!"

"Face, would you shut up for God's sake?" Hannibal snapped. "Murdock, ignore Lieutenant Grumpypants here. You just…er…play with your DS. Okay? And don't try to read anything back there. You'll get sick again." Hannibal lit a cigar and sat back to examine the map and check addresses he'd been supplied by Collingwood.

Murdock nodded, still reeling from Face's tirade at him. He picked up the DS Hannibal had gotten him for Christmas and began playing Frogger. Hannibal glared at Face, who rubbed his face and glanced in the rearview mirror at Murdock, who was concentrating on the game but still looked shaken. "Hey, bud?"

"Yeah?" Murdock asked, his voice quiet. He looked hurt. Damn it, Face thought. Why not just go kick a puppy while you're at it?

"Hey, I'm sorry, man. I'm just…er…worried. This guy is offerin' a big bundle for findin' this woman and we _need_ that money, okay? And I promise, when this over, I will take you to Disney World. For a whole week. Okay?"

A look passed over Murdock's face that Face almost thought was _angry_, and Face realized he had sounded absolutely patronizing, as if speaking to a child who had fallen and scraped his knee. For all Murdock's problems, he was still a grown man, and didn't appreciate being treated like anything other than that. But the fact that Murdock was a grown man was a definite cause for concern, when Face thought about the picture he had drawn of Alexandra. The pilot rarely if ever looked at women – in fact, the lieutenant had decided that Murdock had probably never even been with a woman. How had he had much opportunity, parked with shouting men in the military, and then in mental hospitals? But that led to extremely awful thoughts – the pilot had clearly been abused many times in his life, and there were all kinds of abuse…

Face winced, unable to bear thinking of such things. It was too awful. He struggled to think of something else. "And after that, I'll take you to a…uh…strip club."

Murdock looked absolutely disgusted then, but at least his anger was gone. Face grinned and Hannibal looked a little less displeased with him. If only a little.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Hannibal, Face and Murdock parked across from the little antique store. "This is it. Our last stab at leads in Solvang," Hannibal said. "I still don't quite get why that old man would hire us to find her. There's private detectives, and the police…"

"Because if we don't find her, he reports us to the MP's," Face said gloomily. Murdock kept dozing off – he had eaten two cheeseburgers and a large order of fries, downed a Wendy's Frosty and a huge bottle of water before demanding a stop at gas station a few miles back. "That way, he doesn't have to pay us any kind of fees unless we _do_ find her."

"Check out Mr Confidence here, Murdock," Hannibal grinned. "All right. Go see if she's in there."

Face started to open his door, but Hannibal stopped him. "Murdock, your turn."

The captain froze, and stared at his CO, who had turned to look at him. "I…wait a minute, I'm not sure…"

"I am. It's all right. Just go in and check out the place. See if she's in there. If she is, just play it cool, pretend it's all just a coincidence, and then come back here. We'll take care of the rest."

Murdock slowly got out of the 'vette, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and made his way across the street, shoulders sagging and head down, like a boy shuffling his way to the first day of school. He stopped in the middle of the silent street, looked back at Hannibal, and didn't look terribly encouraged when he got a thumbs up from the cheerful Colonel. Face, meanwhile, looked less than encouraging. He looked stricken, in fact.

Only the beep of a passing VW Beetle got Murdock moving again. He climbed up onto the sidewalk, took a deep breath, and walked into the antique store. A set of chimes above the door signaled his entry, and he looked around the store, his curiosity overcoming his nervousness. He took off his ball cap and checked his image in a gilt-edged mirror, and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly wishing he weren't so reluctant to get regular cuts. And his stubble was growing back. He was wearing a T-shirt that read 'You Look Really Stupid With Your Head Turned That Way', with the words turned sideways; a pair of cargo pants, and his ever-present Converse Hi-Tops.

"Be with you in a minute…I'm afraid we're about to close!" called an English-accented voice from somewhere in the back of the store. Murdock froze in his steps and backed into a rack of old silk and cotton lingerie. He almost pulled the whole thing down in his desperate attempt to flee, but it was too late. He heard footsteps approaching.

"Can I help –"

Fighting his way out of the ladies' underwear and struggling to restore his dignity, in spite of a satin brassiere hanging off his shoulder, Murdock finally faced her, centered on what he needed to say to her, and took a deep breath. He noted the brassiere at last, and brushed it off with a shudder. It landed on the floor, a silvery-pink fish, lonely and unloved.

"Hi." Great. Very suave, he thought. You'll be on the cover of _GQ_ next month, I'm sure. Tell her you have lots and lots of money – that was always your best line.

"What…" Alexandra Graham stared at Murdock, eyes wide. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Antiquing, of course," he said. "I'll take all the lingerie, and that cuckoo clock over yonder," he said, pointing at a Black Forest clock behind her, on a shelf.

"But…but you were…I…I know you. You were in Hong Kong, just three months ago…"

"Yeah. I mean, yes, ma'am. I was. But now I'm here. And…I…listen, can we talk for a minute? I don't have much time. I have to get back…soon. Is there somewhere we can…um…go? Alone?"

She looked him up and down, clearly wondering just who and what he was. But Murdock didn't have time for explanations. He grabbed her elbow and all but dragged her into the room where she had been working. Alexandra protested, but was still too stunned to put any force into her words and could only let him tell her to listen to him.

"Okay. So…uh…listen, your grandfather…he knows you're here. Or, he will know, but…but…I don't want him to know, or at least, I don't want him to mess up your life, okay? So just listen to me. I wanna help you, okay?"

Alexandra's bewilderment was replaced by anger. "He hired you! He hired you to find me. So that's what that whole thing was really about! He hired you, and you found me, but that whole incident with Mr Chow in Hong Kong blew your cover and…"

"What? Wait a minute…my cover? What the hell do I look like, a CIA agent? Just listen to me. I want to help you. I'm trying to help you, if you'd just listen a minute. Don't run away. Just give me a few minutes, okay? A…two minutes! Give me two minutes and…"

The door chimes jangled again. Murdock craned his neck to peer out the door of the little office and down the aisle, and he saw Face coming in, looking agitated. He turned back to face Alexandra. "Damn! I'll come back tomorrow. We'll come back. We're gonna help you. I promise." Murdock fumbled in his pockets and produced a rabbit's foot. "See? My lucky rabbit's foot. I'd never give this to anybody, 'less I was gonna come back for, just like I promised. I don't go nowhere without that thing, see?"

She stared down at the rabbit's foot. "Mr Murphy…"

"Murdock. Captain James Murdock. Army Rangers." He grabbed her hand and squeezed it, and she looked up at him, still confused and very frightened, but the sincerity in his eyes kept her from running out the back door. "I'll come back tomorrow, and we'll talk, okay? Promise me you won't run away. Promise me!"

"I…I don't…"

"Promise me!" he hissed.

"Okay, okay, I promise!" she said, not sure if she meant it. But before she could ask him anything else, or change her mind, he was dashing out the office door and back into the store and up to the tall, handsome man who was gazing in wonder at the period lingerie. He was even tentatively rubbing a silk stocking between his fingers. "Charissa would love this stuff..."

"Hey, Facey. This place is closin' down. The owner don't know nothin' 'bout anything but Steiff bears and Madame Alexander dolls. Crazy as a bedbug, lemme tell ya, and you know I'm an expert at crazy. C'mon." Murdock all but grabbed Face by his collar and tried to frog march him out of the store.

"What the hell…let go of me! And why can't I ask her anything?"

"Him. Mr…Mr Sabatini. Funny, findin' an Italian in a town fulla Danes, but I once found a Chinese fella ropin' calves on a ranch in western Idaho, so stranger things have happened in this world, and will continue to happen. C'mon. Let's get outta here. I'm tired and I wanna go to bed."

"Bed? It's six o'clock, Murdock."

"I wanna get up early, then. May go fishin'. Let's _go_."

"Wait a minute, what's going on here? Murdock, I swear to God I'll…" Face tried to get past his friend, but Murdock moved as fast as a cow pony and blocked him. "What are you doing?"

"Listen! Shut up and get in the damned car, Lieutenant, and that's an order!"

Face looked shocked, and for a moment, he stood stock still, having never heard Murdock bark out orders to anyone before. But when Murdock gave him a hard look and stepped a little closer, he finally conceded. Murdock's moods could shift like the weather in central Texas – there was no use arguing with him when he got this manic. Besides, Templeton Peck knew – but rarely admitted – that Murdock could easily beat the shit out of anybody if he got pissed enough. He shrugged and stepped out of the store. Murdock glanced behind him, saw Alexandra standing in the doorway of her office, and gave her a bizarre signal – he made rabbit ears with his fingers, and then pointed at his right foot. She looked down at the rabbit's foot in her hand and back at him, and wasn't at all surprised to see that he was already gone.


	5. Cats

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 5

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

* * *

Murdock had finally – reluctantly – admitted that Alexandra Graham did indeed work in the antique store, and as soon as she closed the shop down and went home, they followed her to a small, comfortable house on the outskirts of town. Just as Murdock had suspected, she did indeed have a son – a little boy who greeted her excitedly as a babysitter left. Alexandra swung the boy into her arms, hugging him, while the men watched from the B.A.'s van, three of them experiencing but refusing to admit to lumps in their throats. Murdock was particularly affected by the sight of her and the little boy. When they got back to the cabin, he began preparing supper and began formulating his plan.

The men had rented a small, three-bedroom cabin, near a small lake. After a lavish supper (_sans_ anti-freeze, but instead consisting of grilled steaks and baked potatoes the size of half-grown kittens) prepared on the grill by Murdock, they were sitting around the table, talking about nothing in particular, when Murdock took a deep breath and launched into a scheme that made even Hannibal look aghast.

When he finished, Face was furious.

The conman jumped out of his chair and started shouting, first that Murdock had surely forgotten to take his meds, and then that he was behind on his car payments and _needed_ the damned money, which didn't help settle the pilot's nerves at all. Only Hannibal's order to shut up and sit down made Face stop, but he didn't look any the less enraged. He sat down across from Murdock and glared at him, blue eyes blazing.

"Collingwood is giving us a _million_ friggin' dollars to bring his granddaughter to him. A million dollars! And you're just gonna throw that away because you've got some kind of weird crush on her?" he fumed. "My God, Murdock, I could get you a far _easier_ date for a few hundred dollars!"

Murdock looked offended, but held his tongue. He glanced warily at B.A., who wasn't saying anything. In fact, he had been oddly silent as Murdock had told them of his idea. Baracus shook his head and rubbed his eyes, weary from the long drive from Los Angeles and the heavy meal he had just eaten.

"I don't like it, either," B.A. finally said. Murdock's shoulders sagged and he chewed on his lip. But B.A. wasn't finished. "I don't like separatin' a kid from his mama. It ain't right."

"Nobody said Collingwood was gonna take the kid from the woman," Face pleaded. "She'll go to England to live with him, that's all. He wants his great-grandson and his granddaughter there with him while…while he _dies_, or until he does, and when the old buzzard finally does buy the farm, she'll be on her own with what, three _billion_ of her very own? I'd go live with Ted friggin' Turner for three billion dollars!"

"I wouldn't. Ted Turner's a jerk. And what if Collingwood is lyin' about dyin'?" B.A. asked him. "He don't seem like the truthful type to me, anyway, and he looks pretty healthy, too. And this crazy fool is right – there's somethin' fishy about this whole deal. What was that word you used, Murdock?"

"Jubus," Murdock nodded. "It's a Texas hill country word. A mispronunciation of 'dubious', and…"

"Whatever," Face cut him off sharply, dragging his anger back and beating it down. "Listen, Murdock, it's very noble of you to want to help this woman out, and she's obviously good-lookin' and everything, but…this has got to be craziest idea you've ever come up with since you decided to use WD-4 in that pancake mix. That stuff nearly killed us all."

"But they tasted good!" Murdock objected. "And this is the right thing to do. I won't take money to sell somebody into…into…_servitude_, and that's what'll happen to her, and that old man will mess up that kid. I know what it's like to live with people who don't treat you right, Faceman. You at least got parked with the nuns at that orphanage, and even you've admitted that they were good to you, and they gave you a good education. I got parked with…well, some…some bad people and…" He forced himself to stop, noting that they were all staring at him, a little _too _wide-eyed. "It just ain't right, sellin' her like this. It ain't right." He stood up, putting his cap back on. "I won't be a part of it. Split the money three ways. I won't take a damned penny of it."

Face, Hannibal and B.A. stared at Murdock, each still wondering about the 'bad people' Murdock had been parked with. The Colonel finally stepped toward him, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and looked into his eyes. "James, you know I've always appreciated your decency, and your sense of right and wrong, and especially your conscience. You know that, but if we don't fulfill our end of this contract, Collingwood will hand us over to Lynch. You'll end up back in that psych hospital in Germany, and I'd hate that just as much. I'm serious, son. He won't hesitate to turn us in." Hannibal never called Murdock by his Christian name unless he was being very serious with him. The other men only barely recalled that the pilot's name was anything but H.M., in fact.

B.A. clattered his fork and bread knife on his plate. "I won't take any of the money, either. You and Hannibal can split it." He folded his arms across his chest and frowned at Face.

Hannibal looked at Face, who rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I can't believe this! I just can't believe this! A million dollars! A million dollars, Hannibal! A MILLION DOLLARS!" He looked as though he was on the verge of a major meltdown of his own.

Murdock knew just where to strike. "How much would you have given, to have been adopted when you was a kid, Face?" he asked. "I know I'd've given everything I had…even whatever I didn't have…if it had meant my mom would've lived. You know that old man isn't interested in her. He just wants the kid."

"How do you know that?" Face blustered.

"I just know, all right?" Murdock yelled back at him, surprising the other men. "I know…the same way I know how to fly any plane or…or that _Jersey Shore_ is a definite sign of the Apocalypse, or that puttin' government in charge of _anything_ is like givin' whiskey an' car keys to teenaged boys. Okay? I know, 'cause I'm not _stupid_!"

"Nobody said you were stupid, dammit! I know you're smarter than all of us put together! I _said_ this _idea_ is _crazy_!" Face yelled back at him.

"It is a little…er…off the wall, Murdock," Hannibal pointed out, pushing an agitated Face back into his seat. "I kind of doubt she'll consider it a good alternative to going to live in England. Even if the benefits do outweigh the…uh…well, the really crappy alternative you so graphically described a while ago."

"Just let me talk to her, and see what she thinks. I'll get her to give me her _own_ opinion about her grandfather, and if she thinks living with him will be a good thing, then fine, I'll drop the whole thing and you can hand her over. But if she doesn't want to go, then I'm not in on the case. I'm not." Murdock nodded firmly. "I promised her I'd help her, anyway. I _promised_," he said, looking directly at Face. "I won't break a promise."

Hannibal raised his eyebrows and looked at Face, who wavered. Hannibal couldn't keep from laughing. Murdock was as good at manipulation as Face! "All right, all right. Murdock _is_ being very reasonable, actually. We should listen to her side of the story, after all. If she's been running from the old man these past four years, she must have a reason. I mean, if my grandfather was offering me three billion dollars, I'd ask him how high he wanted me to jump to get it, but if I had a _kid_ someone was offering me a _hundred_ billion dollars for, I'd shoot him in the foot and tell him to screw his money and go to hell. She took off for Hong Kong, and is now in Solvang, so apparently she's not very interested in money, either. So in my opinion, there must be _something_ going on that Collingwood conveniently left out. We should at least find out what it is, and Murdock's idea does kind of take care of Collingwood turning us in. The contract won't be violated at all. Well…not technically."

"Right." Murdock nodded, pleased that Hannibal was listening to him. The Colonel smiled and lit a cigar. "Face, if Alexandra Graham agrees to go to England, you can deliver her and we'll each collect our share, all with a clean conscience."

"Oh, great. I hand over a young woman and her kid to a modern-day equivalent to…to…_Machiavelli_ and I'll just be Lieutenant Evil," Face grouched.

"That's _Doctor_ Evil," Murdock corrected gravely. "With that million dollars, you can _buy_ a degree in evil medicine, and get a bald cat. Call him Mr Bigglesworth."

* * *

Alexandra was cooking her son's breakfast, keeping an eye on him as he played with his new kitten. She had objected initially to his having a pet, as he was only four, but he was actually very serious about its care. Nicholas was, in fact, a very serious little boy, even at just four. He still loved Disney movies and flying kites and climbing trees, but he also seemed to take things rather hard. Lately, he'd been asking questions that disturbed her a little – like why he didn't have a father, like kids in the movies he saw, or the kids at the pre-school she had enrolled him in. She had yet to come up with an explanation that fully satisfied him.

She thought about meeting James Murphy…no, Murdock…again. How could their first meeting back in Hong Kong have just been a coincidence, since he was now here in Solvang, declaring that he wanted to help her? He was probably just going to hand her over to her grandfather. Well, she would make one hell of a stink about _that_, she thought as she began beating eggs in a measuring cup. She had her rights. No money, but she did have _rights_, and one of them was that neither she nor her son could be dragged to England against their will. Last time she'd looked, slavery was against the law.

Of course, there was that little issue about her visa. Her son was what some might call an anchor baby, but she had left the country shortly after his birth and still hadn't exactly got caught up with all the complicated paperwork that was required for another visa. She rubbed her temples and sighed wearily. Just thinking about that gave her nightmares. Then again, she had plenty of nightmares already. Hadn't she woke up screaming sometimes, after her husband's death? She still occasionally woke up in a cold sweat, remembering the terror of that night…

The doorbell rang. She almost dropped the measuring cup and stood for a moment, her heart pounding.

"Mummy, there's a man at the door."

Alexandra put the cup on the counter, took several deep breaths, and went out into the living room. Her son was standing at the door, looking up at James Murdock, who was standing outside the screen door and looking pensive. Nicholas was holding his kitten in his arms, and the little fuzzball was trying to climb onto the boy's head.

"Hello," Murdock said, nodding to her. "Can…can I come in?" She had noted the night before that his hair was longer, and that he looked rather…scruffy. Not unattractive, actually, but certainly not like the man she had first met in Hong Kong. He had shaved the stubble, though.

"Sweetheart, why don't you go on the back porch and play with…er…Twinkle…"

"His name is _Tinkle_. 'Cause he tinkled in the laundry basket when we first brought him home."

"Right. Tinkle. Excellent name. Very apt. Better than 'Bloody Cat Ruined My Clothes'" she nodded and pushed the screen door open. Murdock paused, looking down at the boy. Then he crouched down, looking the boy directly in the eye.

"Hi. My name is James. What's your name?"

"Nicholas John Rowan Graham."

"Long handle for a short kid," he nodded, smiling, but unlike most adults, Murdock made no effort to ruffle the boy's hair, or pinch his cheek. Instead, he extended his hand, and the boy shook it confidently. It was clear that Nick found Murdock fascinating. Alexandra suspected that this man fascinated quite a few people.

"Go on outside, sweetie," she told her son, and he obeyed her, carrying the kitten out the back door and onto the porch. Once the door was closed, she turned back to Murdock. "I wasn't expecting you so early."

"It's okay." He looked around her living room, frowning at the threadbare furniture before turning back to her. "Listen, I have some friends with me, and they need to talk to you, too. But I just…your grandfather has lots of cash, and he's hired us to find you. So…yes or no, do you want to go live with him in England?"

She swallowed. His green eyes were watching her carefully, but she couldn't tell exactly what he was thinking. Usually, she could read people fairly well, but her fear and confusion was mixing her up badly. She didn't know what to do, so she could only answer honestly. "I do _not_."

"Why?"

"Because he'll…what business is that of yours, exactly?" she asked him sharply, finally lashing out. "I'm supposed to trust you? I've tried that before, Mr _Murdock_, and it just blew up in my face. For all I know, your friends are out there right now, and…oh my God, Nicholas!" She turned and rushed across the living room to the back door and flung it open, fearing the very worst. But all she saw on her back porch was her son dangling a string in front of the kitten, who was trying to catch it in its tiny paws. She turned back to see that Murdock had followed her, and he looked affronted, easily grasping what her panic was about.

"You think we'd just kidnap your kid?" he asked her. "We don't do that kind of thing."

"My grandfather would," she said angrily. "I wouldn't put anything past him. Nothing at all. He wants my son, and that's all. _I'm_ not his heir, don't you understand? Or…well, I was. But once he finds out about Nicholas…his wife – my grandmother – died trying to give him a son, but just gave him my mother, and all she was to him was a bloody broodmare. At least she had a happy marriage, but my mother died giving birth to me…don't you understand? All he's ever wanted was a male heir – women are nothing to that old…_wolf_." She fought back tears. "He only wants _Nicholas_."

"What about your husband? Where is he?" Murdock asked her. "I'm sure he'd have a say in the matter of where Nicholas goes." He pushed the back door closed again, so the boy wouldn't hear any more of their conversation.

"My husband is dead," she said bitterly, turning away. "And you can be sure that he wouldn't give a da-…and you! You should be ashamed of yourself, harassing a woman and her child. I'm making ends meet, I have a steady job, my son is healthy and happy and I don't date or go in for sexual relationships of any kind. So you can tell my grandfather to take his three bloody billion dollars and shove it!"

"I'm sorry," Murdock said, not daring to touch her. "I mean…about your husband." His brow furrowed. "Why wouldn't he give a damn, though? If I had a son, I'd be pretty pissed if somebody was trying to take him away. Even if I was…you know…dead. I'd come back and haunt whoever was trying to take him. I think I'd make a pretty damn good ghost, too."

His mild attempt at humor fell flat, but she laughed bitterly and turned back to face him. "Just go away, Mr Murdock."

"Captain. Captain Murdock. And I want to help you – I told you I would, and I will, if you'll just let me."

"How, exactly, would you help me? I'm not even an American citizen – I just have a temporary visa, and…" She put her hand to her forehead, a headache suddenly coming on her with immeasurable force. "When that runs out, I'll have to go to England or be deported. Either way, I'm back in the loving arms of my grandfather. D'ya know, he took me away from my father when I was four years old? He was so wrapped up in his own grief, after my mother died, that he didn't even really fight. It made all papers, back in England. It was a bloody nightmare – Grandfather said that my father wasn't 'mentally capable' of raising a child, and got all kinds of people to lie for him. Not even my father getting married again changed things, though I'm sure it drove Grandfather _crazy_ when my stepmother gave him three boys in a row." She eyed Murdock angrily, and rounded on him, pointing at him accusingly. "So you see, Captain, money can buy anything. Looking forward to your fat paycheck? I lose everything and you go your merry way! He says 'Fetch!' and you deliver me like a prize mare. Good boy!"

"I'm not a dog," Murdock shook his head, and appeared to be about to say something, but changed his mind and changed tack. "But you're really sure you don't want to go back? You don't want to go?"

"No, I don't. Was I not clear? But what choice do I have?" she said, shaking her head. "Oh, God, why didn't I run last night? None of this stuff is mine, anyway. It was donated by the local Lutheran church. I'm not even a Lutheran, but you'd be surprised how quickly Danes can move when they're being kind. Nicholas will be…"

"Stop. Listen to me. I want you to meet my friends, and we'll…uh…discuss the solution I have in mind. And we move a lot faster than the kindest Danes you can find."

"What solution?" she asked. She was too tired to argue with him any more. She hadn't told anybody her story in four years – in fact, as far as she could recall, she had never said anything about it to anyone. What was it about this man that made her start talking? She looked up at his eyes – they were just as sincere as they had been back at the Imperial, when he had assured her that she was in no danger. For some reason she couldn't begin to understand, she felt as though that was still the case.

What the bloody hell is wrong with you, she asked herself. This man and his friends had been sent to destroy your life!

"Uh…well, it's…it's kind of a wild solution, and I'm sure you'll think it's just as crazy as they did. But it seems like the only one that would work, but it's got major problems that go with it. Main problem being _me_."


	6. Indecent Proposal

**TOUCHED**

Chapter Six

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

**Note**: Italian phrase from InterTran. I barely speak English, 'kay? ;) I'm just trusting that site.

* * *

"You actually think this plan will work?" Face asked Hannibal as he looked up at the large mansion in Beverly Hills. "I mean, I'll admit, the first part went pretty well. That guy looked practically _orgasmic_ when I told him Alexandra was a cousin of the Queen and needed a place to stay for the summer…and that she's here with the air attaché of the British embassy, no less." He snickered, shaking his head. "The rent's so low you'd think this was a slum. I just hope Murdock can hold onto an English accent long enough. He has to be _convincing_…"

"You know he can convince anybody of anything – remember when he disguised himself as an Iraqi and got that little sleazebag to talk to him? I swear he spoke better Arabic than that guy. And actually, this idea is just crazy enough to work…at least, it'll work out in the end. I think." Hannibal shrugged helplessly. "Though I have to say, I'm not sure how he's going to convince _her_."

"So you think he's got a crush on her, or is this just that whole White Knight thing he has going on in his head sometimes? How he wants to save the world from all evil…?"

"Eh…" Hannibal shrugged. He had no point of reference, when it came to Murdock's thoughts about women. He had never seen the pilot even voluntarily speak to a woman in the twelve years he had known him. Not that Hannibal hadn't taken note of a few women looking at _Murdock_ with interest. Poor guy – he possessed total confidence when it came to flying and fighting, but with women, Captain James 'Howling Mad' Murdock was a complete amateur. "I can't say for sure. I think he likes her. I think she may even kind of like him, or she wouldn't have agreed to talk to him at all." Hannibal looked at Face, his expression now serious. "Murdock isn't much of a talker, Face. I mean…sometimes, he'll talk non-stop, for hours, if he's stressed. But _talking_ – saying something important – isn't easy for him. And that woman is no fool – she looks tough, to me."

"Ten-penny nail tough," Face nodded. "Hot, but _tough_. The 'I won't take any crap from you' kinda tough that I like in a woman."

Hannibal rolled his eye. "Well, strike up the gland."

"I'm just sayin'!" Face looked affronted and went back to the car. Hannibal hopped in and they sped out of the exclusive neighborhood and started back toward Solvang. "It's not like it's not true. But she's also scared. And scared people do crazy things, y'know?"

"Yeah. Like agree to Murdock's idea, for instance." Hannibal shook his head and wished Face didn't insist on driving with the top down on the 'vette. It made it impossible to light a cigar, much less keep it lit. He sighed and thought about the meeting with Alexandra that morning, after Murdock had signaled for them to come on up.

She had been terrified. That was the first word that popped into Hannibal's head, the second he saw her. The next word had been something along Face's assessment of her appearance, though the Colonel was more inclined to just say she was pretty, and classy, and clearly devoted to her son. But at least she had agreed to meet them all, and had sat in her tiny living room with four big, rather scary men and had listened to Murdock's initial part of the plan, her expressive blue eyes wide with shock and then disbelief. The second part of the plan was, at this very moment, being laid out for Alexandra to consider, and while a part of Hannibal thought it was far too crazy for any sensible person to agree to, another part of him suspected that it would work out rather well for everyone involved. Besides, he knew quite well that crazy often was the best option to be found.

* * *

"I've never been in this restaurant," Alexandra told him, as he pulled out a chair for her. She sat down and watched as Murdock went around and sat opposite her. The restaurant was a small, semi-elegant Italian place called Tony's. The tables had checkered cloths over them, and bad paintings of the Coliseum and other Roman monuments decorated the walls. She took a breadstick from the basket in the center of the table and snapped it in two, accidentally inhaling a crumb. She coughed and took a drink of ice water.

Murdock hated being out in public like this. Hated the idea that people might be looking at him, and he felt a right fool in the suit and tie Face had bullied him into. The jacket was dark, the shirt light blue, the tie a darker shade of blue, and the pants black. He was wearing Italian shoes that were too small and made his feet hurt. Even more, Face had made him get another haircut, this time at a barbershop in Solvang, and a closer shave to boot. He _looked_ good, but he felt about as nervous as a whore in church.

He picked up a menu, saw that it was written in Italian, muttered to himself and switched the gears in his mind. Italian. It had been a while. Last time he had spoken Italian to anyone had been in Milan, when they had shut down some Russian diamond thieves. The operation had been making that Russian dude millions, and it had given Murdock a headache, switching back and forth between Russian and Italian, translating frantically for Face, who kept talking too fast, and that damned Swede had walked in and Murdock had had a migraine for _three_ days afterward. At one point, he had accidentally used the word 'prostitute' for 'postage' and had gotten punched in the face by a very large, ugly man named Ivan. Who was now in prison, where the Russian word for prostitute might actually come in handy.

He was about to launch into Italian when the waiter came over and introduced himself as Chip, and looked about as Italian as Murdock looked like a Klingon. In fact, Chip was more likely of Danish extraction. Murdock rubbed his face and ordered spaghetti, no meatballs, sauce on the side. Alexandra ordered beef soup, stating that she didn't feel much like eating. When Chip left them alone, Murdock took a sip of his water and tried not to look at Alexandra. But hell, who wouldn't look at her? A blind man? A blithering twit?

Yeah, blithering twit. He shook himself out of his nervousness and leaned forward. "Have you thought about my idea?" he asked her.

"I have thought about it," she said. She began twisting a napkin into an ever-tighter knot, and Murdock watched her hands as they moved, momentarily transfixed. "It's…it's…I have to admit, it's very kind of you to come up with something like this, and…well, it's…"

"I think I should point out a coupla things," he told her. "Statistics, first of all."

"Statistics?" she echoed, bewildered.

"Yeah. The odds against you winning any kind of legal battle against your grandfather, first of all. He's got tons of tin. You've got old furniture donated by the Lutheran church and a job in an antique store in Solvang, California."

"Well, I…"

Murdock cut her off mercilessly. There was no time for niceties now. "Even more, as you pointed out this morning, your visa will run out soon and then you'll either have to reapply and wait around for months for it to be approved – and meanwhile, your grandfather will have already started the wheels turning on getting you back to England anyway. You said yourself that he's not interested in you, but in the kid. As far as he's concerned, he'll take the boy, without you in the picture at all. Prob'ly would suit him better, right?"

Their meals arrived. Alexandra stared down at her beef soup with an expression of dismay, as if a giant eye was staring back at her from the bowl. Murdock spun pasta around his fork, but had no interest in it at all. "Have you told him about my son?" she asked him in a whisper.

"Yep." Murdock cleared that hurdle far more easily than he had suspected. Face had coached him on the art of lying that afternoon – he had needed it, as he had never been good at outright deceit. Playing a role. Pretending. But _lying_ in and of itself was hard for him. "We do have a contract with him, after all."

She paled. "So I agree to this plan – this ridiculous plan of yours – and I buy _time_?"

"Well, there's more to the plan than just movin' to Beverly Hills."

Alexandra had scoffed about moving, and the whole notion of her being related to the Queen and being the wife of the attaché to the British ambassador. She sat back in her chair, forgetting about her soup. She stared at Murdock, trying to figure him out. Enigmatic was a word to use to describe him, but right now, he seemed slightly manic. Agitated, and extremely nervous.

"Listen, when you go back to England, you can either give in and live with your grandfather, or you can defy him and live in a tiny apartment pretty far from Sloane or Chelsea or wherever rich folks live in London these days, and end up in…what do they call it? Council housing? Great environment for a kid, eh? And all that time, you'll be in court, fighting a losing battle against a man who has all the resources you'd never have."

Alexandra paled, then leaned forward again. "My grandmother would help me," she told him, and winced when his agitation vanished and his expression hardened.

"The Dowager Countess of Eddington, right? Think she's got lots of cash?" Murdock shook his head. "She's got a big castle to run in Cornwall. All the money, or what little money there is, is tied up in the estate and your brother is only twenty-four and just got married to a girl who was working in a flower shop in Notting Hill – no cash brought in, either, and he's working as…what was it again? A consultant for some public relations firm in London? They like titled guys to work for 'em, and I'm sure he's a nice guy and all, but I doubt he's getting lots of dough. I s'pose y'all could've given the castle over to the National Trust and lived in reduced circumstances, but I looked the Earls of Eddington up. Land rich, cash poor. Old Saxon stock, in Cornwall before William the Conqueror, respectable before being respectable was in style, and the fifth earl didn't think to marry a rich American girl back in the eighteen-nineties, like a lot of English peers did. They refused to sell out. Something about family legacy and heritage and how they'd been there since God was a kid, blah-dee-blah. That won't help in a courtroom. No judge'd look at what your grandfather can offer compared to where you'd be living and not think that the old man isn't offering a better life for your kid. You've been moving him around since he was born. You have a degree in art history, which basically means you're qualified to wear a cardboard hat and ask people if they want their fries super-sized." Murdock took a deep breath. He was painting a gloomy picture for her, but it was his most effective weapon right now, and it seemed to be working.

"How did you find all this information?" she asked him, astounded and insulted. But it was true. Her art history degree from Cambridge certainly hadn't meant much in the past few years, though it had been useful while working in the antique shop. She could spot a fake from a mile away, from paintings to pottery to silver.

"Wikipedia will give you the factual information. Just don't believe _any_ of the editorial stuff. And then there's Google. Listen, you're screwed, Alexandra." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Unless…"

"Unless what?" she asked him, grasping at straws.

"Unless you consider the second part of this plan. The big part."

She crossed her arms and stared across the table at him, waiting. He didn't seem nervous now – instead, he seemed resolved. His green eyes locked into hers and she found she couldn't move. What was it about this man? She had thought Colonel Smith seemed commanding, and Sergeant Baracus intimidating, and that Lieutenant Peck kind of shark-like, but Captain James Murdock had…charisma, and he knew how to use it.

"You could get married."

For several moments, Alexandra couldn't move, or think, or fall down laughing or start screaming. It was as if all the air had left her lungs, and the entire world had ground to a halt. All she could do was stare at his strange, mysterious man and wonder when she was going to wake up. Was this a nightmare? No…no, it wasn't really a nightmare. He wasn't the kind of man who caused nightmares. In fact, in another life, at another time, she would have found James Murdock absolutely…

No. She finally forced her way back to the surface and started breathing. She took a drink of her water and put the glass down so hard it was a wonder it didn't shatter. "I will never marry again."

He studied her briefly, then leaned forward again, speaking quietly, his voice low. "Husbands are very useful things to have around. A considerate husband, for instance, would never allow his wife and stepchild to live anywhere but with him. A married woman enjoys certain rights, and a foreigner marrying an American becomes an American citizen the second she says 'I do'. 'Course, there's the INS, but they can be dealt with."

"What is this? Is this some kind of joke?" she asked him sharply. "I told you…"

"Yes, you told me," he hissed. "_You told me_. I'm not deaf. I am offering you an opportunity. You'd even be able to get in a little dig at the old man. He comes to collect and you're married instead, to a guy who won't let you or your son go to England."

"Opportunity?" Alexandra hissed back. "What sort of opportunity is this? I have no interest in remarrying. I tried that and…and I won't try it again!"

"Who says it'd be a real marriage?" Murdock gave up on his spaghetti and pushed the plate away. "Just give me a list of candidates and we'll…er…vet them and get back to you in a coupla days. They'd have to have good jobs, of course, and clean records." He looked down at the plate of pasta, apparently going over something in his mind, before looking at her again. "Preferably rather boring, too. Dependable. Reliable. Milquetoasty, but solid, and believable. Pillars of society."

"In a couple of da-…are you insane?" she gasped.

He looked around the room, clearly not pleased with that question. Finally, he leaned toward her. "Do you have any candidates?"

"No, I do not," she answered, rubbing her temples. "I told you, I have no interest in marrying again."

He shrugged. "Then you might as well say g'bye to your kid, 'cause the old man will snatch him up like an eagle grabbin' a rabbit. Count on it."

Alexandra had had enough. She threw her napkin down and grabbed her purse. "You're a heartless _bastard_!" she told him, making sure everyone in the restaurant heard. Murdock only sat still and let her leave. Chip returned, looking concerned.

"Is everything all right, sir?" he asked, watching Alexandra leave.

"_Fare roba guarda d'accordo_?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Murdock handed the kid several bills and left, stepping out of the restaurant and in search of Alexandra. He paused outside the door, and looked both ways, finally spotting her walking quickly, heading in no particular direction. He galloped down the sidewalk, almost bumping into people who cursed at him as he passed by. Finally, he caught up with her and blocked her path.

Showing far more grit than she really felt, Alexandra put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Leave me alone!" she shouted. Several people stopped to look at them, and a cluster of tourists coming out of the doll shop stood watching, curious.

"You need to listen to me, or you will lose your son, and I know he's everything to you. I know that. I'm trying to help you, dammit!"

"I told you…and I will tell you one more time, _Captain_, that I have no interest in this lunacy."

"This isn't lunacy. It's the best option, all right? You get yourself a husband, you don't lose your kid. It's that simple, but it's gonna take a lot of…of _work_. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble we're going through for you?"

She looked like she was about to break down. "Why are you doing this? _Why_? I'm nothing to you. I don't even know you!"

"You could," Murdock said desperately. "You could…I mean, you could…could have a…a…secure life. Just let us…let me…help you and everything will be fine. I _promise_."

"You promise?" she wiped her tears away, refusing to give in to them. She had cried enough in the past, and was determined to never be that weak again. "What's a promise from anyone? Just a delay before you start telling a bunch of lies."

"I'm not lying. And I really want to help you."

"Why?"

He swallowed and looked away, ignoring the people walking by. The few remaining people on the sidewalks had lost interest in them and were walking away, eager to get home. It was dusk, and the city street lamps were coming on. Stores were closing for the night. "Because it's the right thing to do. Because…because I won't stand by and watch a kid bein' taken from his mom." He stuffed his hands in his pocket, took a deep breath, and looked directly at her. "And if you don't have any candidates, you…you could consider me."

"_You_?" she gasped, her terror and her anger forgotten, replaced by sheer astonishment.

He stepped toward her. "I know it's crazy. I know you think I'm just lying to you, that I'm just gonna turn you over to your grandfather, but I won't. I won't do that. I had that done to me when I was a kid, and I…I'll never do that to you, or to your son. I won't. You can trust me, Alexandra. You _can_."

She exhaled slowly and looked around the now empty sidewalk. The light turned green, but no cars were there to travel through the streets. The only sound she could hear was of men singing Danish songs at the VFW down the street. They drank aqua vite and ate lutefisk in there – a truly horrifying combination, and clearly as part of a dare, rather like consuming haggis. She finally looked at Murdock, and saw that sincerity in his eyes, and that childlike sweetness she had first noted in Hong Kong. "You say you won't take my son from me?"

"I won't. We have a contract with your grandfather. We signed it, and we will fulfill it. But nowhere in that contract does it actually say you have to live in England or with _him_. We just have to deliver you and Nicholas."

"Deliver us? And I'm supposed to believe that…"

"We get married tomorrow. We deliver on the contract, we take you to the old man in Beverly Hills, he sees that we're living at a place there, and we'll go to England with him, just to make sure the contract is fulfilled, and then we come back to California, and he won't be able to stop that – you're over eighteen and will be married to a…er…diplomatic attaché – that is, _me_. And when he finally kicks the bucket, we'll…we'll get an annulment and you can go your own way, with your three billion and your son and you'll never have to see me again."

"And what about your friends?" she asked him, barely believing she was even considering this. "What do they get out of this? How am I supposed to believe that they won't just…hand me over, or snatch Nicholas away and…"

"They won't do that. I told you, they don't do stuff like that. I don't do stuff like that. All you have to do is take a blood test – I'm AB positive, by the way. Very rare. A blood test, then it's a quick wedding at the justice of the peace here in Solvang in the morning, and in the afternoon we fly to L.A. All very legal, all very straightforward."

"Fly?" she whispered. She didn't enjoy flying.

He grinned at her then. "Yeah. We're gonna _fly_."


	7. Hunchbank

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 7

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

If you can find the reference to an INXS song in here, you get a cookie!

* * *

When Murdock knocked on Alexandra's door, he wasn't expecting it to open so soon, or for her to look not only angry but harried. Her hair was wrapped in a towel, she was wearing a silk bathrobe, and Nick's kitten was attached to the hem of the robe, nails dug determinedly into the material.

"You aren't ready?" he blurted out, before thinking. For a second, she looked like she might actually deck him.

"It is has been chaos all morning!" she said, forming each word through clenched teeth. "My first wedding wasn't this much of a bloody hassle, and it was practically a state occasion! And I swear, if this is all just a _trick_, they'll be finding parts of you all over California!"

He raised his hands in the air, index fingers pointed up, surrendering immediately. "It's not a trick. Honest!"

She rolled her eyes and stomped away, kitten swinging from her robe's hem. Nick came running out of his bedroom and would have tackled Murdock if the pilot hadn't moved quickly. He looked the boy over, holding him back at arm's length – the kid was dressed in a cowboy outfit, complete with boots and (plastic) spurs, a hat, a cowhide-pattern vest, sheriff's badge and a pair of silver six-shooters. Nick looked at him with wide-eyed curiosity as Murdock crouched down to look him in the eye. Murdock had always hated people who refused to look at him, when he'd been a kid, or teased him or asked him a bunch of questions he was in no mood to answer. So he felt it only right to talk directly to the kid, eye to eye, man to man.

"Hi. Remember me?" he asked.

"Yeah. You're the man my mum is marrying."

"Er…right."

"She says you're kinda strange, but that you're nice."

"She does?"

"Yeah." Nick took his cap guns out. "But if you're not, I'll shoot ya!"

"I'll keep that in mind," Murdock nodded gravely, and Nick seemed satisfied. He stood up and let the kid run off to hunt down rustlers. He followed his nose to Alexandra's kitchen, and he stepped in as she was pulling the kitten's little needle-like claws out of the hem of her robe. The top of the robe was open, and he got a bit too much of a good look for his own nerves' good. "Uh…hey," he cleared his throat, and Alexandra looked up at him. Just for a moment, their eyes met and they were both still. The kitten decided then that it was a good time to sink his claws into Murdock's ankle. The pilot yelped with pain and reached down to grab the little creature. He held it up to eye level, by its scruff, the kitten meowing piteously and actually looking _apologetic _as it dangled helplessly from his hand. But he knew better. Cats couldn't be trusted.

He put the cat on the counter top and looked at Alexandra, who was now clutching the top of her robe closed with one white hand, her cheeks pink. "I figured I would drive you into town. The blood test is in less than an hour, and we've lined up the JP for ten o'clock. Then we fly outta here after lunch."

"You didn't tell me you were a pilot."

"I don't guess I've told you much at all, have I? What do you want to know?"

"Well…your full name, I guess." Alexandra reached up to touch her hair, in that utterly female 'I'm totally in control' gesture, but was horrified to realize she was still wearing a towel. He felt sorry for her then – obviously, she was not in her element, and he was still basically a stranger to her.

"Captain James Quinn Murdock, Army Rangers," he told her. "Born July the twentieth nineteen-seventy-three in Llano, Texas. Father Hanson Murdock – no middle name. Mother named Alice Eleanor Quinn. Both dead." He eyed the kitten, which was batting at his hand, apparently hoping to draw blood this time. "He died when I was three days old – killed in a farming accident. She died when I was ten. Uterine cancer." He shuffled a little, not wanting to go any further.

Alexandra's eyes widened, and she nodded. "My parents died in a plane crash. He and my step-mother were going to a safari in Kenya, and the engine just…lost power." She snatched the kitten from the counter before it could finally make a leap for Murdock's wrist. "My mother…well, I told you about her."

"Right. What's your birthday?"

"January tenth, nineteen-eighty-two. Kedlington Castle, Cornwall. Would you like some coffee?"

"No thanks. So you're Cornish, huh?"

She smiled. "Yes. I grew up in the country, basically, near the sea. It's a beautiful part of England, not far from the Bodmin Moor – there used to be a mental hospital there, so if someone's crazy around tehre, they say he or she has 'gone Bodmin'. I didn't even go to London until I was fifteen. I had no idea so many people could live in one place at one time. Seemed quite impossible."

Murdock's mind was dwelling on Bodmin, but he forced himself out of there and to the present. "I didn't even go to Austin 'til I was ten. Llano isn't exactly a bustling metropolis, but it's still a pretty small town. I haven't been there in a while, though."

"It's near Austin?" She leaned back against the counter and kept an eye on the still determined kitten, which was now batting at her ankles. She shooed it away, but apparently Tinkle was made of sterner stuff. It tackled her slipper-shod foot.

"Yeah. Coupla hours north." Murdock finally had had enough of the little beast. He snatched it off the floor and tossed it onto the living room couch. The kitten only looked offended, not injured. "In the hill country. Really rough part of the world, actually. Not as in high crime rate, but hard to survive, and no place for the weak. I come from cedar whackers, m'self, but wanted no part of that. I always wanted to fly."

"What on earth is a cedar whacker?" she asked him. The coffee was ready, and she poured herself a cup. Murdock watched her take a sip of the strong black stuff and drew in his breath. He was marrying this woman, and he couldn't remember having even touched her, except for when he had prevented her from calling security at the hotel in Hong Kong. Even worse, he had the feeling she wasn't going to welcome him touching her at all, and probably never would.

Just what in hell are you getting yourself into, he asked himself. "It's…it's a term for…well, basically, a hillbilly. Respectable folks, but…uneducated, for the most part. Not stupid, but uneducated."

"Nothing wrong with hillbillies, and 'education' means nothing if you don't have any sense. There's even a few hillbillies in Britain…though I'm ashamed to say we usually just called them Scots."

Murdock snickered. "I come from them, too. All of 'em wearin' skirts and paintin' their faces blue, screamin' bloody murder and the like. They killed your ancestors at Stirling and Bannockburn, if I recall."

She smiled, and he knew she was thinking about her ancestors killing his at Flodden. But he was looking at her face, and that lovely smile, and Murdock felt his knees weaken. Get control of yourself, stupid, he told himself firmly. She's only marrying you in the technical sense, not in the biblical sense. She's like any other woman with good sense – she'll never want _you_.

Alexandra finished her coffee, looked around the kitchen for a moment, apparently frantic, then took a deep breath. "I had better go get dressed, right?"

"Right. Wedding's in two hours."

She dashed from the room as though she was being chased by demons, and a moment later he heard a door bang shut. Nick appeared then, and leveled his six-shooter at him. Murdock put his hands in the air, but the boy was apparently the 'wanted dead or alive means 'dead'' type, and shot the pilot in the chest. Murdock feigned death and staggered to the couch, prepared himself for his final soliloquy, but moved the kitten out of the way before he collapsed on the couch. "Get six jolly cowboys…" he gasped. "To carry my coffin. Get six dance-hall maidens…to…to bear up my…_wheeze_…pall. Put bunches of roses…all over my coffin…_gack_… Roses to deaden…the clods…_gasp_…as they fall…" He went limp, and Nick giggled. "For I'm shot in the breast…and I know I must die…" After a few moments, he sat up and looked at Nick, who watched him with interest. "Thank you, thank you. I'm here all night. Try the veal."

* * *

Alexandra stood in her bedroom, gasping for breath. She hadn't even thought…it hadn't even occurred to her that he might want this to be a real marriage. Any man would expect that, after all. It would only be normal, but she was not a normal woman, and this was not a normal marriage.

A pounding headache was starting up, the first she'd had in quite a while. But in the past four years, she hadn't allowed a man into her _house_, much less into her any part of her life. She had learned the hard way never to trust them, and yet here she was, jumping into marriage with her eyes shut, not thinking of the consequences, even if marriage would solve many of her problems and give her some degree of protection. Nevertheless, James Murdock didn't appear to be the sort of man, after all, who would just accept a marriage to a woman who wouldn't let him…

"Oh, God," she sat down on her bed. She had fled England because of her first marriage, and used what little cash she had on hand to buy a ticket to New York. She had bought a miserable little car that apparently been built by drunk Russians and had somehow made it to California. No one had really noticed her then – they had only seemed to pity her, as she had been a young, skinny thing with her arm in a cast and apt to burst into tears at the drop of a hat. People had been willing to help her, and every time the Yugo had broken down, folks were eager to do what they could for her. She had come down with what she thought was stomach flu somewhere in Oklahoma, but a doctor had told her that she was pregnant instead.

Pregnant, after a thirty-four hour marriage! If the situation hadn't been so bloody awful, it would have been a farce. Crying all the time, unable to hold anything down, and finally wrecking the hatchback (which she started calling a 'hunchback') outside Solvang, she had let the Lutherans take her in, and they had been incredibly kind and hadn't asked many questions. Just let her cry and vomit and hadn't said a word about the ugliness of her car or asked her how she'd broken her arm. She had given birth to nine pounds and six ounces of screaming baby boy on Christmas Eve, surprising everyone in the delivery room by praying ardently for a girl. Considering that childbirth had killed her mother and her grandmother, Alexandra had come through the three-hour ordeal with flying colors. "Easiest first-time delivery I ever saw," one of the doctors had said, right before she tried to kick him and called him a bloody twerp, and would he like to do it next time 'round?

Rubbing her eyes, Alexandra began changing into her 'wedding dress' – a cream-colored top and skirt that had somehow survived Nick's babyhood unscathed. She knew she would look awful – her hair was just barely under control, she was as pale as a ghost, and as she stood in front of her full-length mirror and observed herself, clad in just her underwear, she knew she wasn't likely to arouse anybody's passion. Not with those ugly marks on her belly and thighs. Fighting off her terror and denying she felt light-headed, Alexandra put her clothes on, searched desperately for some shoes that matched her outfit, or at least each other, and after finally finding them, begging God for _calm_, she stepped out of her bedroom, out into the hall and turned into the living room.

Nick was seated on the couch, playing with the kitten. James Murdock was looking out the front window, his back to her, hands stuffed in his pockets. She noted that he was still a rather thin man, but strongly built. She had to admit – he was attractive, with that apparently unmanageable hair and those green eyes. He had a way about him – that shy sweetness and awkwardness, but also a confidence and a self-assuredness that was entirely male and strangely _soothing_. But there was something else, and just then it finally hit her: he was just as damaged as she was.

He turned around and faced her, and nodded. "You're ready now?"

"I think so," she whispered back.

* * *

The blood test took little time at all, and then it was a quick drive to the Justice of the Peace. She wasn't surprised to see his friends waiting for them, ready to stand witness to this bizarre union. Alexandra was even more surprised to find that the JP was a tall, lean man who bore an unnerving resemblance to Andy Griffith and who performed the ceremony without any folderol. She glanced up at the man beside her, who was transformed from total stranger to husband when she finally said 'I do'. She was not required to kiss the groom, and he made no move to touch her at all. He only nodded. His friends, particularly Lieutenant Peck, looked pleased with how well things had gone. Colonel Smith clapped Murdock on the shoulder and almost knocked him over.

It was all kind of a let-down, she thought as she sat in the back seat of a Corvette driven by Lieutenant Peck. Sergeant Baracus was seated next to him. Colonel Smith had declared, after the ceremony, that he had business to attend to and would meet them back in Los Angeles later. In between herself and Murdock sat her son, who seemed curious about the whole thing and was asking a million questions a minute, but she had to admit she was pleased that Peck and her new husband both were answering him patiently. Pretty soon, though, he would start asking why the sky was blue and where did frogs come from and what sound does a giraffe make when it's angry. She adored her son, but she knew any four-year old could get on a man's nerves. Yet none of them, least of all James, appeared irritated at all.

"Are we going to McDonald's for lunch?" Nick asked eagerly.

"Um…" Murdock actually seemed amenable to the idea, but Face shook his head, looking at Nick via the rearview mirror.

"Not today, bud. We're gonna have steak, and then Murd-…er, James here will fly you and your mom to L.A."

Nick looked at Murdock, eyes wide. "You can _fly_?" he asked, eyes wide with admiration. "Really?"

"Yeah." Murdock futzed with his tie. He was feeling a lot like the day he'd been shot in the head, pretending to be General Morrison. He glanced up into the mirror and caught Face's eye. The conman just grinned. B.A. looked back at him, looked like he was about to say something, but caught the look on the kid's face and seemed to change his mind.

"I can fly," Murdock reiterated. "We all have wings. Some of us…well, some of us just don't know why."

* * *

Alexandra strapped herself into her seat, checked Nick's seatbelt as well and looked up at her new husband, who was doing a fast flight check. He seemed awfully rushed, but she didn't think anything of it until she looked out the window and saw a furious-looking little man shouting and running toward the plane.

"Um…James, why does that man look so _angry_?" she asked mildly.

"Hm?" He peeked out the side window of the cockpit and winced. "Oh. Yeah. Well…er…he has…er…Tourette's. We're lookin' into it." He looked out at Manny, the man he was borrowing the plane from. The plane's owner – who owed the A-Team more favors than he could count – had thrown his clipboard down and was jumping up and down on it, shaking his fists, screaming and cursing. Fortunately, no one could hear him out there, much less inside the plane.

So what if Manny hadn't been aware that his plane was being borrowed until now? He'd get over it, and the plane would be stored safely at LAX. No problem. He got on the horn and called the tower. "Hey, Mitch, tell Manny to remember to take that high BP medicine tonight and not worry 'bout his plane, okay?"

"Murdock, I swear to God, if this was anybody but you, I'd've called the cops!" Mitch yelled back. "Now get going!"

Alexandra was aghast. "You're stealing this plane?"

"Uh…strategically borrowing it, actually, is the proper term," he answered with a smile. "Anyway…uh…hm…okay, everybody, hold on to your butts!" He fired up the engine, grinned as it began purring like Nick's kitten after a milk binge, and turned toward the lane. "We're expecting clear skies and sunshine today," he announced. "Watch out for flying saucers."

An angry female voice came over the horn then. "James Murdock, this is Cecily!"

"Hiya, Cec," Murdock winced. Manny's wife was almost as profane as her husband, and he glanced back at Nick. "There's a kid in here, so mind your manners."

"Listen to me, you lunatic. You wreck that plane and…"

"Now have I ever wrecked a plane?" he asked, glancing back at Alexandra and giving her a twitchy little smile.

"Yes! You have!"

"I was shot down!" he snapped, offended. "And as I recall, we managed to escape…albeit into a tank, but you can't be picky 'bout stuff like that…"

_A tank_? Alexandra mouthed.

Cecily shouted a few more things at Murdock, and he shut off the horn before the rest of one particular word could get through, and spoke sharply into the mike. "Now listen here, that was also a combat situation, and my mother was a saint, so neither of those comments are appreciated in the least. So if you wanna catch me, just break out your broom and your flyin' monkeys an' come get me! Peace out, and really, baby, shave your legs. Don't you know fur is dead?" He turned off the horn and settled in for a quick flight. He looked back at his wife, caught her wide eyes and gave her a confident smile. "We'll be in L.A. in about…mm…an hour or so. Just sit back and relax. It's all clear skies from here on in. I know it."

Alexandra studied her husband, once he had turned back to man the controls. With his confidence and sweet, goofy humor, she could almost believe every word he said.


	8. Bleach

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 8

Rating: K+

Author: AlyshebaFan2

* * *

Nick held the crayon drawing up for Murdock's critique, and the pilot considered all the options – it was either a dog or a turkey. A durkey? Turdog? He had once come across something truly horrible called a turducken, but that been in New Orleans and he had been drinking rather heavily, so it may have just been his imagination, and besides, in Louisiana, chefs were frequently seen beating whatever they were cooking back into the pot.

"Um…wh-what do you…uh…say it is?" he finally asked, lobbing the ball back to the kid's court without as much grace as he would have liked, and Nick rolled his eyes dramatically.

"It's a _house_, silly!" Nick told him, talking to him as though he had no artistic taste whatsoever.

"Ah…the Picasso version. I see it. Really. Very nice. Uh…go draw somethin' else, eh?"

Nick accepted his stepfather's suggestion philosophically and scrabbled back across the tiles, to the table beside the pool, and resumed his coloring project. He had drawn countless pictures that morning, starting with one of Murdock that bore an alarming resemblance to Bigfoot, standing next to Alexandra, who was wearing a pink dress and green shoes (a fashion _faux pas_ that Murdock let pass, as the kid was only four), her dark hair up in a twisty type thing. Nick had drawn himself, standing between then and looking kind of fierce.

He had taken the boy outside, to contemplate the pool. The mansion they were renting in Beverly Hills was far too big for Murdock to feel entirely comfortable in. He liked space, for sure, but space on top of so much conspicuous luxury was unnerving and he was afraid to wear his shoes indoors, or to sit down on anything. So he had gotten tired of standing around and figured the patio furniture could tolerate him okay. The boy had been awake at the crack of dawn, prying Murdock's eyes open and stating that he was _bored_ and _hungry_ and he couldn't figure out how to operate the TV in the living room.

The TV had stumped Murdock too. Considering he had been born in 1973, he was pretty technologically advanced, but that huge flat-screen thing screwed into the wall in the barn-sized living room had a remote control that weighed about five pounds and probably also opened the garage door and could launch missile strikes against Norway. There were all kinds of touch-screen things all over the house, too – they operated window shades and security cameras and lights. One night in the mansion had made Murdock feel increasingly nervous, and he hadn't slept well. Frankly, he was glad to be up at military time – apparently, his stepson was a future soldier, because he was early to bed and early to rise. Thus, so far, no social life.

The pool was huge, too. Olympic-size, and fed by a fake spring splashing over a pile of rocks. There were all kinds of toys to play with, too, but Murdock felt a little too dispirited to have a go at any of them, much less go for a swim. Water was not really his element, anyway. He glanced up at the sky, but saw no planes. Just blue and a few wispy clouds. He had made scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast, and after warning the kid not to go near the water, they had sat out by the pool, eating and chatting. Nick liked dogs, but hadn't been allowed to have one but was happy with Tinkle. He liked cheeseburgers and X-Men and _Penguins of Madagascar_. Murdock informed him that he liked Wolverine and penguin sandwiches, with cheese. To his surprise, the boy had giggled and demanded that he join him in drawing pictures. So most of the morning had passed with them drawing. Murdock gave the boy a basic lesson in composition – mind the shading, draw what you want to draw, and be creative.

Creative Nick definitely was. He jumped down and ran over to Murdock, holding another completed drawing. Murdock held it up, observing what was clearly a plane, but decided he'd better check. "Nice…um…plane?"

"Can't you tell it's a plane?" Nick asked, looking exasperated.

"Yes. Of course. I was drawin' planes when I was your age, too. Do you like flying?"

"Yeah. Mummy doesn't. But she told me it wasn't so bad, flying here yesterday."

"Well, that's good to hear," Murdock sighed and sat back in his chair, tipping his head back to look at the sky again. He almost jumped out of the chair when he saw Alexandra looking down at him. He sat up sharply, then stood and faced her.

The night before had been awkward. Some honeymoon, he thought. She had let him make dinner, once the others had left, but hadn't eaten much. In fact, she had been extremely quiet, and after announcing that she had a dreadful headache had retired to her bedroom – which, of course, was on the other side of the house, far from the room Murdock had picked out for himself. He knew that all the bedrooms were enormous, with huge closets and _en suite_ bathrooms. Nick had zonked out at precisely eight o'clock, and barely twitched when Murdock picked him up and put him in the room next door to Alexandra's, and the rattled pilot when back downstairs to sit in the kitchen, wishing he knew what to do. There had been no conversation, but what did he have to say?

Now, he was even more at a loss. Alexandra was dressed in a ribbed T-shirt and jeans, her feet in sandals. She looked good enough to eat. Murdock beat that thought away quickly, replacing it with the word 'temporary'. He cast about, trying to think of something to say, and finally looked back at Nick, who was dashing toward his mother, holding several pieces of paper.

"Look what I drew, Mummy!" he said excitedly, handing her a sheaf of papers. She sat down at the table and began sorting through the drawings. She glanced up at Murdock when she got to the 'house', and he mouthed the word to her. Her mouth twitched and she smiled.

"That's very good, sweetie," she said. "Um…I've never seen a house with…er…legs before."

"That's the _driveway_!" Nick shook his head. "Mummy, you just don't have any 'magination."

"Well, I have far too much reality in my life," she said. "Perhaps I'll try harder, from now on, to be imaginative." She kissed her son on the forehead and smacked his bottom as he ran back into the house.

"Reality isn't all it's cracked up to be," Murdock informed her, once they were alone. "Sometimes, it's a bi-…er, harsh taskmaster…?"

Alexandra nodded. "Indeed. I think we should…er…talk about a few things. House rules, or suchlike…"

He plopped down in his seat again, and she sat opposite him. He was going to have to talk to her about a few things, namely his frequent stays in mental hospitals. That would definitely liven up the conversation. But right now she wanted to talk boundaries. He had had countless conversations – or actually, lectures from others – about that subject. About how he wasn't supposed to climb out onto the ledge and try to catch pigeons. Or how it was very improper for him to use a brassiere as a slingshot, even if it had been hilarious and had livened up the group session.

"Right. House rules."

"Well, I'm not big on alcohol, so if you could please not bring any in here."

He made a mental note to scratch the Wild Turkey off his grocery list and nodded. "Fine."

"No profanity, either. I want Nick to have a vocabulary of useful English words, not vulgarity. Not that I find it necessarily offensive. More tiresome, really."

"No problem there." Murdock shrugged. He wasn't much into really _foul_ language himself. He only got really foul when he hurt himself, or when those bastards at the VA pumped him full of too many drugs. He frowned. _Think_ bad words, then. It's easy enough. Say 'em in another language. Finnish is good, for profanity.

"And…um…while I know this is just a…an arrangement, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't bring women here or…or anything."

"Women?" He looked around, bewildered. "What women?"

"Well, I'm sure you have a girlfriend," she pointed out, her cheeks turning pink.

"I do?"

"Well…don't you?"

"No. I don't."

"Oh. Right. I just assumed that you…did."

"If I had one, I certainly wouldn't bring her here…or take her anywhere else, for that matter, while I'm married to you. Adultery is _wrong_, last time I looked."

"I'm glad to hear you believe that. A lot of people these days think it's perfectly fine, if your wife 'doesn't understand you' or if you're bored, or she's not a good cook or the sex has gotten…er…old."

"Well, those people can go hang," Murdock said, shaking his head. "Call me a friggin' Puritan, if you like, but to me, if you're cheatin' on your spouse, you're also cheatin' on your kids and you aren't worth a bucket of warm spit."

She actually laughed and sat back, looking vaguely surprised. "You are rather old-fashioned, aren't you? Not many men would put their lives on hold to marry a total stranger, after all."

"Well…" He felt his own cheeks warming. "I can't abide a kid bein' taken from his mom. I promised you I wouldn't let that happen, and I mean it."

"Were you…were you taken from your mother?"

"No." He looked down. "After she died, I was taken…" He stopped, not willing to go on. "Listen, I was thinkin' about goin' to get some groceries. Wanna come along?"

"Oh, no thank you. Tell me…this A-Team you're with…" She leveled her gaze directly at him, clearly wanting an honest answer. "I can trust them, right?"

"Yeah, and you'll like 'em, too. They'll be around a lot, I suspect. Face is overprotective, B.A. likes my cookin' and Hannibal likes to think he's in charge. He actually is, usually, but don't let him get think he can boss you around. Do, and it's over for ya."

She nodded. "I suppose it'll be good for Nick, to finally have some men around. Male role models."

"Yeah, well, so long as Face isn't the one to give him the birds an' the bees talk, he'll be fine."

"Why is Lieutenant Peck called Face?" she asked him. Murdock leaned back in his chair, staring at her in bewilderment.

"Because of his…uh…face. You know – he's the good-lookin' one. The conman, the charmer. The mover, the shaker…the candlestick maker…no, wait, wrong nursery rhyme…"

She rolled her eyes. "And you couldn't be a mover and a shaker?"

He laughed out loud then, glancing through the open French doors to check on Nick, who had abandoned art to play with a set of Matchbox cars. He was making car noises and smacking the cars together. "Me? You're joking, right? Look at me!"

She looked at him, taking in his white T-shirt and faded jeans. His arms were tanned and muscled, his chest and shoulders wide and strong, in spite of his thinness. He had apparently taken a comb to his hair that morning, but it was already showing signs of rebellion, and his five o'clock shadow was already evident at just ten in the morning. She observed his green eyes, his finely-formed face, and his sensitive mouth. Her grandmother had frequently told her that men with weak chins were also of weak character, and she had scoffed at the idea, but come to think of it, Simon had had a weak chin…

Alexandra looked down then, angry at herself for even comparing Simon to James. There was no comparison at all. "You're very handsome," she finally said softly.

He stared at her, clearly not believing her but clearly amazed to hear such a thing from anyone, and that only further intrigued her. Suddenly, he snapped back to attention, sitting up straight in his seat. "Uh…I forgot…just a minute…" He rushed into the house and she heard him clattering up the stairs. A few moments later, he came back, holding a small velvet box in his hand.

"I figure that you ought to wear a wedding ring, for…for now. Until…you know…" He awkwardly handed the box to her. "It was my mother's."

Alexandra opened the box and stared down at the little gold ring. There was a tiny diamond setting, sparkling in the morning sunshine. So small, in fact, that it would take a microscope to measure it, but the size wasn't what mattered and she cared little for diamonds. She took it out and examined the fine etching around the ring. He cleared his throat nervously, and she looked up at him.

"You can get it resized, if you need to. And I know the diamond is really small. My father…he was just a farmer. He worked three jobs, pullin' cotton and pumpin' gas and choppin' cedar, to earn the money for it, but…well, it's a real diamond, and the gold is from Wales."

"It's beautiful," she whispered. She looked down at her hand, and before she could really react, he had taken her hand in his and removed the small ring she was already wearing.

"Does this mean anything to you?" he asked, holding the ring up, noting that it didn't even glint in the sunlight. "It's not from Frodo or anything, is it?"

Alexandra laughed, a nervous, gaspy little giggle that bubbled up from her chest, where her heart was pounding, watching her pale fingers clasped gently in his rough, tanned hand. "No. I hocked my wedding ring, after I got to Solvang, but not wearing a ring led to some embarrassing situations, so I bought this at a flea market. I've had to have the edges filed down so many times it's a wonder there's anything left of it, but it would cut into my finger and…"

Murdock tossed the worthless ring into a potted palm and took his mother's from her. She felt her cheeks warming as he slipped the ring onto her finger, and was amazed to see that it fit perfectly. "It's lovely, James. I promise, I'll take good care of it." Her hand was in his again, their fingers clasped together like lovers in an old Victorian print.

"Good." He nodded. She stood up and was about to tell him she had better go eat breakfast, when he leaned in and kissed her cheek. There was no awkwardness in the gesture – just a warm, almost boyish sweetness in how he did it that made her forget to panic but instead caused her to feel butterflies flutter around inside her stomach. She knew her cheeks were pink now, and she saw that he was blushing a little too.

He took a deep breath. "I…I had better go. Do the shopping. The grocery shopping. At the…the grocery…store. Where people frequently do their grocery shopping, or so I'm told. Not like you can do your grocery shopping at an auto parts store. I'll be…be back soon." With that, he fled. Alexandra stood by the pool, holding her hand out in the sunlight, watching the light bounce off the tiny diamond and trying to calm the butterflies down.

* * *

Face arrived at Murdock's mansion and stopped his 'vette in the wide driveway, outside the five-car garage. He grinned as he looked up at the Norman-style mansion. The place had a friggin' _present-wrapping room_, along with a game room, a movie-screening room, an indoor basketball court, a dining room that could be used as a hangar, a chef's kitchen he knew Murdock already loved, an exercise room, and nine enormous bedrooms. He couldn't help but feel happy to think of his best friend in there, finally in a place with all the room he'd ever need and more, with no one coming at him with syringes. Even better, Murdock would be living with a beautiful, clearly _decent_ woman with a cheeky little kid to play with.

Getting out and walking to the door, he was surprised to see that the door was open, and the kid was playing with a kitten on the living room floor. "Hey," he called, stepping inside.

Alexandra came out of the kitchen. "Oh, hello. I had the doors open to let some air through – I burned the bacon. James will have words about that, I'm sure!"

"He never jumps on anybody about burnin' stuff," Face said with a grin, remembering Murdock setting his arm on fire back in Mexico. No, _James_ didn't mind burning things at all. He studied Alexandra, checking for post-honeymoon glow, but was disappointed to see no evidence of that. She just gave him a friendly, polite smile and went back to the kitchen. He followed her in and leaned against the countertop. Nick came in, carrying his kitten and eyeing Face.

"Hey, bud. You like this place?"

"It's big." The boy put the kitten on the floor, and Tinkle made a beeline for Face's Bruno Maglis. Face shooed him away, but the kitten was not deterred. He attacked Face's ankle, digging tiny claws and sharp teeth into the conman's flesh.

"Get off me!" Face yelped. He snatched the kitten up and held it in front of his face. The animal hissed and pawed at him, furious. He gave up and handed it back to Nick, and the kitten promptly curled up in his master's hands and looked deceptively angelic. Alexandra ordered her son to remove the cat immediately, and the boy knew better than to argue.

Once they were alone, Face generously offered to dry dishes. He looked Alexandra over, impressed. She was definitely a looker – tall, slender – maybe a little too thin, really – and elegant. Probably had taken dance lessons until her height dashed any hopes of a career with the London Ballet. She moved gracefully, yet there was an air of good humor and good sense about her. Her dark hair was pulled up into one of those impossible-to-identify twists that women were always coming up with, held together by a pair of chopsticks.

"Was there something you wanted, Lieutenant Peck?" she asked him, raising a smooth eyebrow.

"Uh…not really. Just thought I'd come by for a visit. I won't stay long. Where's Murdock?"

"_James_ has gone grocery shopping," she said.

"Sorry, we're not used to calling him James. He's just…Murdock."

"Right. _Just_." She started putting the dishes away, and Face contemplated her cute little butt as she stretched to put the plates on their shelf.

"Just?" He settled back against the countertop and crossed his ankles.

"Well, it seems to me that you don't take him very seriously, and as a result, I don't think he has much…well…self-esteem. I know self-esteem gets far too much press these days, but he could certainly use a little."

"Hey, we take him very seriously," Face objected. "It's just that…well, he has his moments. Manic moments, and panic attacks, and meltdowns…sometimes, we _have_ to take him back to the VA, before he…"

Alexandra closed the cabinet door and turned to face him. "The VA?"

"Yeah. You know, the VA hospital. VA psych hospitals. The last one was kinda rough, I gotta say. That heartless cow wanted to lobotomize Murdock. No way in hell is _that_ gonna happen. _Ever_. I'm still lookin' for a place to take him, if or when the time comes. Not that I think the time is going to be soon, but…what?"

"Psych hospital?" she said, her voice soft, but her eyes were wide with shock.

"Uh…" Face sensed that something was very wrong. Very, very wrong. "Oh, Jesus, he didn't tell you?"

"No. But I find it rather interesting to now discover that I married a mental patient yesterday."

"Hey…hey, don't worry about it. He's not dangerous. He's the sweetest guy you'll ever know. Harmless, and…and he really does want to help you, and…" Face cast about, desperate. He had made _huge_ blunder, and when Murdock found out about this, he was going to be in a _world_ of hurt.

"Oh, I know he's sweet. And I know he's harmless. But I do find it rather convenient that he left out that _tiny_ little detail!" Alexandra snapped at him. "You all left it out!"

"Well, we thought he had told you!" Face hissed back, in the grips of a full-blown panic attack of his own. Last time Murdock had gotten really angry at him – all because he had destroyed one of his model airplanes (how was he supposed to have known it wasn't quite flight-ready?) – he had ended up needing not only stitches but oxygen. He still didn't know where Murdock had gotten that Zippo lighter. You can't find Zippos any more. "But…but really, it doesn't matter. He's okay. Most of the time."

Alexandra squeezed the bridge of her nose, between her eyes. "Most of the time?" she asked him patiently.

"He has phobias. And…and panic attacks, sometimes, and he gets fixated on stuff sometimes. But he's also the bravest person I've ever met, Alexandra. I mean, he'll charge into the worst battles you'll ever see and drag out as many wounded as he can find, without even blinkin'. He's got more Silver Stars than any pilot in _history_. He's got dozens of other medals…bars all over his chest, so he looks like a friggin' Christmas tree. And he keeps goin' back, no matter how scared he is, 'cause he's naturally brave. But all that…it traumatized him, too. He's been through a lot – and I mean a _lot_ - and he already had some problems before, so…c'mon. Don't just…dump him."

"I'm not going to dump him. But he's going to have to do some explaining when he gets back." She turned from Face and looked out the window at the street outside.

"Right. Right. And I'm going to go home. I have a date tonight. Opera, in fact. See ya!" And when I get home, I'll hide under my bed, Face thought as he rushed out of the house. He could only pray that Murdock's intermittent memory loss would hit before he got to his apartment.

* * *

Murdock had numerous bags of groceries, as well as various household items that he figured would be necessary. He had succumbed to the urge to buy antifreeze and WD-40, but firmly told himself that he wouldn't use it in the food. That stuff would go in the garage instead. He grabbed two bags out of the back of the car (a red PT Cruiser, of all things, that Face had scammed for him, but it did haul quite a lot) and trotted into the house. He greeted Nick and told him to go out and find something light to carry in. He put the bags on the counter and was startled to see Alexandra standing there, leaning against the sink.

Uh-oh.

"Hi."

"Captain," she said.

_Uh-damn-oh_.

"Lieutenant Peck was here," she said mildly. "He informed me of your…psychiatric history."

Murdock froze. _Uh-double-damn-oh_, he thought. "I was going to tell you."

"Were you? When, exactly?"

"I'm not sure. But I was. Would you have gone through with the wedding if you had known?" He fought off his panic and started unloading the bags.

"I don't know. I'm not sure at all. If you've been a mental patient, that does bring up some problems, doesn't it? A husband is useful to have around, yes, but a husband who has a history of mental illness…"

He swallowed and continued putting stuff away. Nick staggered in, carrying a gallon of milk. Murdock snatched it up with a muttered 'Thanks' and looked at Alexandra. "It's not like anybody has to know. No one can access my Army records without my guardian's consent, or the Army's consent."

"Who is your guardian?" she asked him.

"Well…technically, it's Face, who has himself listed under an assumed name. But now that you're my wife, then I guess you'd be the one to release 'em or not. Like I said, nobody needs to know."

"And what if you have a…" She glanced down at her son, who was watching them with an increasingly anxious expression on his face. "Honey, go on and play with Tinkle, okay? Mum and…James need to talk."

Nick seemed relieved to be dismissed. She looked at Murdock again. "What if you have a meltdown?"

"Then…then we'll deal with it," he said quietly. "Face told you about this, you said?"

"Yes. He did."

"And are you going to leave?"

She chewed on her lower lip, and he watched her, waiting, his heart pounding.

"No. I'm not going to leave. I have nowhere else to go, and…who am I to judge, anyway?" She shook her head. "Just give me a little time to _adjust_ to this, all right?"

"Right." He almost collapsed with relief, but pulled himself back together and went back to the car to get the rest of the groceries. Once everything was inside, he looked at her as she continued to stand there, arms crossed, deep in thought. "I have to go out. Do you mind putting this stuff away?"

"No. I need something to do anyway."

"Good. I'll be back in a few minutes."

* * *

Face had calmed down a little by the time he got to his apartment. Hannibal and B.A. were watching TV in the living room, bickering over who was going to win the basketball game they were watching. It had been over an hour since he'd left Murdock's house, and he was starting to think the pilot had either forgotten or had decided not to do anything. Or, worse, he was waiting for an opportune time to strike. Face knew Murdock would get him eventually. If he'd forgotten today, he'd remember later. The waiting would be the worst part.

He was wearing an eight-hundred dollar black Armani suit, expensive leather shoes, and a pricey cologne, all so he could go listen to fat people scream – couldn't they do that at a lot less expense just by watching Jerry Springer? Still – she had always wanted to go to an opera, and Murdock had actually been the one to recommend _Aida_, as the story was simple, the shrieking was relatively minimal, and it didn't last a week. He shook his head and checked his reflection in the mirror on the 'fridge. He looked pretty good, even if he was a little wide-eyed. He had put the suit on his Visa card, but had no intention of keeping it after tonight – he would take care of it until tomorrow morning (if Charisa got a little enthusiastic, he could get it dry-cleaned if necessary) and return it, claiming it didn't fit quite right. Easy enough, and he'd done it hundreds of times. Just reattach the tag.

Sosa was due in about an hour, and he was eager to get going as soon as possible, in case Murdock _did_ show up. He was smoothing his eyebrows and checking his teeth when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," B.A. said. Face grinned, glad that Sosa was indeed early. She was obviously rarin' to go, and frankly, in spite of his nervousness, so was he. If he could get Hannibal and B.A. out of his apartment, maybe he could enjoy some quality time with Charisa…

"Hey, Murdock," he heard Hannibal say. "How was the honeymoon?"

"Where's Face?"

Face froze and looked around for some means of escape, but the only way out of the kitchen was by way of the living room. He could climb out the window, but it was a three-story drop. He took a deep breath and stepped out, where he saw Murdock standing there, talking to B.A. The huge mechanic jabbed his thumb toward Face. "Over there. Shouldn't you be at home with you wife?"

"In a minute." Murdock stepped around B.A. and smiled at Face. "Hey, buddy, how ya doin'?"

"I'm good," Face lied. Still, the pilot looked calm and relaxed. Face decided he was just dropping by for a friendly visit. He had forgotten, or…or maybe Alexandra hadn't said anything yet. That had to be it. If Murdock was angry, he was _angry_ and didn't bother to hide his feelings.

"Hey, listen, I was wonderin' if I could borrow some laundry supplies – we're out, and I forgot to pick any up this mornin'."

"No…no problem!" Face grinned.

Whistling cheerfully, Murdock ambled down the hall to the laundry room. A few moments later, he reappeared, still whistling, with one arm behind his back. "Facey, that's a nice suit. Goin' to the opera tonight, right?"

"Oh. Right. Yeah. _Aida_. Suit's 'borrowed', y'know?" Face grinned, so nervous he was starting to bounce on the balls of his feet.

"Cover your face and close your eyes," Murdock nodded. "I have a surprise for you."

Exhaling with relief, Face did as he was directed. Murdock had probably bought him a boutonnière, and he'd just have to explain that the opera wasn't quite the same as the prom. A few moments later, he heard what sounded like a spray bottle being used, and some kind of fluid being sprinkled all over the front of his suit. He was bewildered until he smelled it…bleach?

"Oh my God!" Face screamed, and looked down. Murdock was still spraying, and Face lurched away from the steady stream being aimed toward his torso and pants. "Oh my God! Oh my God!" Murdock chased him as he headed back to the kitchen, screaming in horror as eight hundred dollars went down the rat-hole.

With his back to the furious pilot, Face kept yelling as Murdock kept spraying. B.A. and Hannibal wrenched the bottle out of Murdock's hand, but were both laughing so hard they almost fell down onto each other. When they finally moved away, the pilot straightened his T-shirt, nodded firmly and left. Face turned around to face them, the bleach already taking its devastating effect on his suit. B.A., giggling uncontrollably, staggered to the couch. Hannibal put his hand on Face's shoulder and with a lengthy struggle to regain his control, did his best to look sympathetic, but it was hopeless. He shook his head and went back to the couch to sit down.

The doorbell rang again, and Face cowered against the sink, sure Murdock was coming back, probably with a bucket of blue dye or a chainsaw. B.A., giggling so hard he could barely walk, opened the door and grinned at Charisa Sosa, who jabbed her thumb down the hallway. She was wearing a black evening gown and looked gorgeous, but also confused.

"Hey, I just saw Murdock leaving…what the hell? Why do I smell bleach?"


	9. Deal of the Century

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 9

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

**Song**: I Wanna Be Sedated, by The Ramones. Great song, and so Murdockish.

* * *

When Murdock returned to the mansion, he was greeted by a bemused-looking Alexandra and the kitten, which was sitting in her lap, purring and showing no sign of being a demon. He paused in the foyer, glancing up at the sweeping staircase that lead to the rooms upstairs. He was checking for packed luggage, but there was no sign that his wife had decided to ditch this whole bizarre scheme and high-tail it for parts unknown.

"I got a rather interesting phone call from Colonel Smith a few moments ago," she informed him, shooing the kitten away and standing up. He stood still, and she brushed cat hair off her shirt. "It was rather hard to understand him, at first, considering all the noise in the background. I could hear Sergeant Baracus and some woman _laughing_, but most interesting was what I think was the sound of Lieutenant Peck sobbing and yelling 'Eight hundred dollars' over and over again. Very strange."

Murdock's mouth twisted a little as he thought about the satisfaction of getting Face exactly where it would hurt the most. Peck had a tendency to butt into his personal life a little a little _too_ much, claiming he was just looking out for him. Maybe this would teach the conman to stick his big fat nose elsewhere.

"Er…he prob'ly lost money on a bet at Santa Anita. He does that – I tell him to bet on one horse, he bets on another, and it gets a cramp. Every time. And did Hannibal ever get around to what he was calling about?" he asked her, still keeping his distance. He knew he was on dodgy ground now, with Alexandra, and he couldn't tell how long it would be that way. Probably forever, he suspected.

"Yes, as a matter of fact he did!" Alexandra snapped, her voice acid with sarcasm. "I'm supposed to go with you to some swanky restaurant in Santa Barbara, to meet my grandfather!"

"Ah." Murdock could see the fear and panic in her eyes – that was to be expected. Still, he doubted the old man would snatch up Nick and sail off to England, defying the world and international law just so he could have his precious 'heir' with him for his final days of life.

"And I just put my life and the life of my son into the hands of a man who has been in and out of mental hospitals for most of his adult life!" she said, and rubbed her temples.

Murdock felt like he had been slapped. Part of him knew that she was only lashing out, like any frightened person would do. But that didn't take the sting out. He looked at the floor, the shame and terror of his past coming back in full force. It was hard to think of any stay in a mental hospital as being something you boasted about, and he couldn't blame her for feeling embarrassed and furious at being stuck with him. "Right," he said softly. "I'm…I'm sorry…"

She looked up at him, and felt even more dreadful. I'm such a selfish little bitch, she thought, and moved to reach out and touch his arm, but he had already moved away from her. He was shaking his head, distressed and clearly hurt. Very nice, she thought. He's just trying to help you, and what do you do? Your best Lady MacBeth! "James, I'm sorry," she said, and dodged his steps as he started up the stairs. "I shouldn't have said that. It was very cruel, and very unfair."

He actually looked bewildered. That had her stumped – any time she offered him any kind of compliment or simple kindness, he looked as though she was speaking a language he had never heard before. She tried another tack. "I mean, I only took a couple of psychology courses at university, but one major point was that…that mental illness isn't the victim's fault. That sometimes it's a chemical imbalance, or…or hereditary, or the result of…uh…abuse…" The startled look that crossed his face made her wonder if she had either hit a nerve or if her foot was just sticking out of her mouth. She was talking to him as though he were a child. She decided it would be best to shut up, and backed away from him.

The hurt in his eyes was enough for her to know that no more words would help. She let him go upstairs, and listened to his door shut, although it surprised her that he didn't slam it into next week. Alexandra went back to the couch and sat down, sighing sadly. The kitten climbed back into her lap and she stroked its back. "Be glad you're just a cat, Tinkle," she said. "You can't _talk_."

* * *

It was past midnight. Murdock had stayed in his room, even forgoing supper so he could be alone. He had called Hannibal back and listened to his CO's plan, and after little more than a few curt questions he had hung up and stretched out on his bed.

It was a king-size bed. Far bigger than any bed he'd ever slept on. The mattress was one of the PosturePedic, sleep-number things that he had spent a long time fiddling with last night, trying to find a number he liked. Extra hard made his hips hurt, particularly the one that had taken a bullet several years ago. Extra soft made him feel like he was suffocating in a cotton gin. Somewhere in the middle – what he was familiar with, and was reminiscent of hospital beds – finally proved just about right. Now, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, having changed the setting to extra hard so that he felt the burn of pain in his hip and in his right shoulder, where that Iraqi's knife had sliced. He was accustomed to physical pain, and had learned to cope with it by doing all kinds of mental tricks – songs, imaginary dogs, airplanes, choppers, stories he'd read as a child – anything to remove his mind from whatever anybody was doing to him. It was the hurt he was feeling from somewhere else that was keeping him awake, and he didn't know how to cope with it.

The walls of his room were bare – he hadn't hung up any pictures, and the only item he had added to the room itself was a bookshelf stocked with some favorite old spy novels and a biography of Nathaniel Greene. No model planes or choppers hung from the ceiling or were lined up on the shelves – they were all in a box at Face's apartment. He had found no reason to decorate a room that wouldn't be his for long, anyway.

He hadn't ventured to Alexandra's room at all, but he imagined she would want to make it into something her own, eventually. He closed his eyes and imagined she would put a big, comfortable hand-made quilt on the bed. Her sheets would be pure cotton, probably a light pastel color – blue or green or yellow – and that she would paint the walls in some soothing, relaxing shade conducive to rest and that would blend well with morning sunlight pouring in.

He imagined her in her bed, her hair down, wearing a cotton nightgown with little rosettes on the front, with lace around the hem and on the sleeves. Her skin would be soft and as smooth as silk, and would smell like lilacs, and...

"I'm so sorry," Alexandra whispered, and he felt the side of the bed depress as she sat down beside him. "Please forgive me."

He didn't speak, or open his eyes. He felt her fingertips brush his cheek, and a butterfly-light touch of her lips against his, and reached up to touch her hair, and let a silken lock wind around his fingers as he pulled her down for another, hungry kiss.

Murdock sat up, gasping. He looked around the bare room and cursed viciously in Finnish, just in case Nick was awake and had ears like an eagle. Here he was, dreaming about a woman who would never want him, like the damned crazy fool he was. He scrambled out of the bed and went into his bathroom, to look at himself in the mirror. Too thin, hollow cheeks, rough stubble, shaggy hair – yeah, she's bound to jump your bones, he told himself with a snort of laughter. Splashing cold water on his face and pulling his T-shirt shirt off, Murdock stalked back to his bed and threw himself back in, changing the setting back to 'Psych Ward' and finally drifted into a deep, miserable sleep.

* * *

The drive to Santa Barbara was long and traffic-delayed. Nick sensed that his mother and James were not in good moods and sat in the back seat, strapped into a car seat, playing with a set of plastic dinosaurs his stepfather had given him and otherwise keeping quiet until the storm passed. Finally, Murdock turned the car radio on and searched for something good to listen to. He finally stopped at the Ramones and sang along.

Twenty twenty twenty four hours to go

_I wanna be sedated!_

_Nothin' to do, nowhere to go-oh!_

_I wanna be sedated!_

_Just get me to the airport_

_Put me on a plane!_

_Hurry, hurry, hurry,_

_Before I go insane!_

_I can't control my fingers, _

_I can't control my brain…_

Nick giggled from his nanny-state confines as Murdock sang, in perfect pitch. Alexandra, dressed in a black pantsuit and looking elegant in spite of her nervousness, smiled back at her son. "That, my dear, is what they call British punk. Learn it. Love it."

"You like _punk_?" Murdock asked her, clearly surprised.

"Some of it. Well, in my youth, I loved it. One summer, I had purple hair."

He looked at her, as they stopped at a red light. "Are you serious?"

"It didn't last the whole summer. Somehow, it was hard for me to explain being the daughter of the 8th Earl of Eddington and having purple hair, aside from 'Yes, I am rebelling and doing it 'cause everybody else is doing it', which is hardly actual rebellion. Just stupid. Finally, I just started telling people it was a dye job gone horribly wrong and finally put it back to rights. My grandmother was, to say the least, delighted that I had stopped being an idiot. For a least a few minutes anyway."

Murdock smiled, and Alexandra felt a bubble of some strange, unexplainable but delightful, fizzy emotion rise up from her somewhere in her chest, and she continued, covering her sudden giddiness. "Yes - Lady Alexandra Graham…punk rocker! Alas, I couldn't get into a band. Can't carry a tune in a bucket, I'm afraid. Now, it's Goths and that dreadful alternative rock, to which the only alternative is to turn the radio off and take some aspirin."

The light turned green and he moved forward, making it across the intersection and under the light just before it changed and traffic stopped again. They were behind what had to have been a train wreck, a helicopter crash and four jack-knifed semis, at his estimation, for this much traffic.

"I remember seein' my first Goth, a few years ago, in a Starbucks in Seattle," he informed her. "At first, I didn't know what it was. Face had to tell me, actually. This kid's hair and fingernails were jet black, he was wearin' black eyeliner he'd apparently applied with a trowel, his skin was Liquid Paper white, and he was wearin' leather and chains, but frankly he still looked about as threatening as Justin Beiber. I told him the real Goths would have beaten the shi-…er, the crap out him." He glanced at Nick via the rearview mirror, but the boy was thankfully smacking his dinosaurs together and hadn't heard any of the exchange. "I mean, the real Goths tore Rome to bits. These modern-day Goths would have trouble tearing open a bag of Sun Chips."

Alexandra covered her mouth with her hands, laughing until tears formed in her eyes. "Stop it! You'll ruin my mascara!"

"You didn't need it anyway. You look beau-…er…fine."

The tension between them had lasted all morning, right through breakfast. When Nick had been sent upstairs to fetch the kitten and lock him securely in the laundry room (which was free of clothes-filled baskets or anything else it might destroy), she had struggled yet again to apologize for her thoughtless words of the previous night. Murdock had only shrugged off her regrets and never looked her in the eye. Just stared at the floor and mumbled something about how he had certainly heard far worse from all kinds of people and not to worry about it.

Who else had said such things to him, she wondered. Who could be that cruel? She studied her husband's profile for several seconds, until another song came on the radio. He seemed amused to hear 'You Spin Me Round', and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. They were due at the beachside restaurant in Santa Barbara in less than an hour, but Murdock suspected they wouldn't get there until sometime tomorrow, at this rate.

* * *

They actually arrived five minutes before time. Murdock had to put his jacket back on, and standing in the restaurant parking lot, he gave up on putting the tie on. He contemplated putting it on Nick first, as he couldn't seem to do it correctly on his own neck but had always been able to put them on other people. Hadn't he put ties on all the crash test dummies in that car factory, some years ago? That had given Face a bit of a shock. That many Windsor knots couldn't keep from being unnerving, after all.

Alexandra finally rolled her eyes, grabbed him by his coat lapels and silently ordered him to stand still. She slipped the tie around his neck, and got to work, expertly tying the knot and checking to see that the top button of his shirt was done up. It was a light blue silk tie, and had an arresting effect on his eye color, bringing the flecks of gold and hazel out in force. Once the tie was on properly, she couldn't resist the urge to brush his hair back, finally determining that it was indeed silky against her fingertips. At the moment she touched him, however, they eyes met and they stood, staring at each other, their bodies just barely touching. She felt her cheeks pinking, and nervously licked her lips. His head dipped down slightly, but he stopped himself and jerked away, startled. Alexandra stepped back, and didn't know what to do with her hands. She looked down at the gold ring on her finger.

"Right. Good. Thanks," he nodded. He gestured to Nick, who had occupied himself by studying a seagull as it ate a piece of bread on the pavement. "C'mon, kiddo."

They walked up to the restaurant doors, where a man wearing what looked like a chauffer's uniform greeted them. Alexandra was accustomed to this, however, and informed him that they were meeting Sir Henry Collingwood. The man bowed and opened the door for them and watched the lanky pilot walk into the restaurant, his hand on the small of Alexandra's back and keeping Nick at his side by way of keeping his hand on top of the kid's head.

Collingwood was sitting at a table on the deck, looking out over the ocean, with Hannibal, Face and B.A. He was gripping a dark, gnarled cane and looking grumpy. The soldiers all stood when they saw Alexandra, but the old man didn't move a muscle. Murdock thought, for a moment, that he could smell bleach but figured it was just his imagination. He pulled a chair out for Alexandra, but she didn't move. She just stared down at her grandfather, whose eyes were on Nick.

"My great-grandson," he said. "Come here, lad."

The boy seemed slightly reluctant go to his great-grandfather, but he finally obeyed at Murdock's gentle urging. Alexandra tensed as the old man touched the boy's face and shoulders, as if making sure he was real. He pinched his cheeks and tousled his hair as the boy squirmed, but the old man didn't notice or appear to care that the boy was uncomfortable.

"I see you named him after that bloody woman!" the old man finally said, after giving Nick a thorough inspection. He looked up at Alexandra. "_Nicole_. A bloody Frenchwoman, of all things, becoming an English countess!"

"She was the closest thing I ever had to a mother, so why not?" Alexandra answered, finally sitting down in the chair Murdock had proffered and folding her hands neatly in her lap. "And she was an excellent parent to me, and to my _brothers_."

"Should have named him after _me_, since I raised you. Ungrateful little…"

"Sir, if you say what I think you're gonna say, you're gonna be kinda wet soon," Murdock said, nodding toward the ocean and taking a sip of his ice water.

Collingwood glared at Murdock. "How dare you talk to me that way to me!" he shouted. Several restaurant patrons looked up, alarmed, but Collingwood seemed unfazed. Nick, however, moved back to his mother's side and didn't look like he was willing to go near the old man again.

"I think I'm at liberty to talk to you any way I please, since I'm family now," Murdock shrugged.

Hannibal sighed. He had sort of wanted to break the news a little more _subtly_, but maybe this was for the best. Maybe the vicious old codger would die of shock right here and now. Burial at sea would be easy enough. Or have a traditional Viking funeral – send him out on a boat and set him on fire. But then the Coast Guard would probably put the fire out…

"Family?" Collingwood shouted. "_Family_?"

"Yep, Grandpa," Murdock grinned and tossed down the rest of his water and reached for the glass of wine the waiter had plunked down in front of him. "Alexandra and I were married two days ago."

For a moment, it looked as though Collingwood would belabor them all with the cane. Instead, he sat back in his chair and glared at them with venomous faded blue eyes. "Married! You married my granddaughter without my permission?" he shouted. More people in the restaurant were staring at them now, and a waiter was headed their way, looking distressed.

"She hardly needs anyone's permission to marry. She's over twenty-one, and there wasn't even a father to ask," Hannibal pointed out with a smile. "Though I'm sure Murdock would have done just that."

"Then this bloody deal is off!" Collingwood hissed, finally realizing that his shouting wasn't actually doing him any favors. The waiter had been joined by the restaurant's manager, who looked not distressed but kind of ticked. "You promised me that you would deliver my granddaughter and my great-grandson. That was the deal."

"And we fulfilled the deal," Hannibal pointed out. "We delivered them. But nowhere in the contract does it say they had to stay with you. They will, of course, go to England next week for a nice visit, but they will be returning here to California after one week and of course they will make…er…occasional visits at _their _convenience. And we will expect full payment, sir." He looked at Alexandra, noting her wide eyes and how she kept looking at Murdock, who was silent.

"I want my heir!" Collingwood kept his voice down, but he was clearly on the verge of a major tantrum. "I want him with _me_. I waited forty bloody years for an heir!"

"Yep, and now you've got one," Murdock said, leaning forward. He drained the glass of wine, and stood up. "Nick, come with me for a minute, okay?"

The boy was eager to get away from the mean, shouting man. He grabbed Murdock's hand as though it was the source of his very safety and let himself be led toward the railings of the observation deck that was suspended over the ocean. Murdock crouched down and looked the boy in the eye. "You will never have to live with him, if you don't want to. I promise. Okay?"

"Okay. I don't like him."

"Well, I doubt anybody really does. But he _is_ you great-grandfather, and…you know you feel when you get something you want? Like…like that Skipper toy you got at McDonald's? You really wanted it and were really happy when your Mom got it for you?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's how your great-grandfather feels now. He's finally gotten what he's always wanted. So I want you to do something for me. I want you to go for a walk on the beach with him. Just for a little while. Let him talk to you for a bit, and I'll make sure B.A. follows along. You like B.A., right?"

Nick shrugged. "Yeah, he's cool. Not as cool as you, but he's okay."

Murdock had to bat away laughter, hiding it with a cough. "Good. He'll follow, and when you come back we'll go back home and we'll make some airplanes. Model airplanes. They'll even fly."

"Okay." The boy still didn't look terribly enthusiastic, but he marched back into the restaurant and stood beside his mother again, eyeing the old man. Murdock sat down again and glanced briefly at Alexandra, knowing she wasn't going to like his idea.

"You two go for a walk, eh?" he said, nodding to the old man and gesturing at Nick. "But to make sure you don't try anything you shouldn't, B.A. here is gonna follow ya."

B.A. was only too glad to get out of the elegant restaurant. He stood up and glared down at the old man, who slowly rose to his feet. He held out a gnarled hand to the little boy, who looked back at Murdock with worried eyes. But Murdock nodded to him, giving him an encouraging thumbs-up, and the boy finally took his great-grandfather's hand and went out to the deck and down the stairs to the beach. B.A. trailed behind them, appropriately intimidating. Hannibal got up and went out to the deck, to keep an eye on things just the same, and Face leaned forward, looking at Murdock.

"That was an _eight hundred dollar suit_," he said, his voice softly menacing. "I'm gonna have to do God only knows what to pay for it now."

"Shouldn't'a stole it then." Murdock shrugged. "Maybe it's time for an honest job, Facey. You could be a…a gigolo!"

"I didn't steal it!" Face hissed, enraged. "I was gonna return it! Put the tags back on, and return it. Now I can't…I should make you pay for it."

"No, wait, not a gigolo. A male stripper!" At Face's exasperated look, he burst into laughter. "Take me to court," Murdock snickered. "Explain how the tags got cut off when you took it home." Alexandra was strangely silent, having stood up to watch her grandfather and Nick walk along the beach. The boy had reverted to his usual seriousness, listening to whatever the old man was saying. B.A. was trailing behind them, just a few steps back.

"I don't like this," Alexandra finally said, looking at Murdock. "In fact, I really hate it. He only speaks quietly to dogs."

Face gave up on his fury at Murdock. At least he hadn't had to sit through an opera, and he had scalped the tickets after Charisa went home, having laughed so hard at his blotched suit that she had declared that she wasn't sure if it hadn't been good for her health. He turned back to Alexandra. "Isn't that typical of Englishmen?"

She didn't look amused. She went out to the deck and stood beside Hannibal, who was smoking a cigar. He glanced at her, and smiled. "Everything's fine. Just relax and trust your husband."

"I'm trying," she whispered, wiping her eyes. Hannibal gave her shoulder a fatherly squeeze and left. A few moments later, Murdock appeared at her side.

"I'll repeat Hannibal's advise," he told her, leaning on his forearms on the railing. "It's fine. Hey, it's been forty years, right? He just wants his moment – let him have it. He's dying, or so he says."

"And what if he's…well, what if he's pulling an Al Megrahi on us?" she asked softly.

He smiled, amused that she would bring up the Lockerbie bomber as an example of her grandfather. "Well, I doubt anybody'd let him go on compassionate grounds, but you have a point. He might live a long time."

They looked at each other, each thinking of that possibility. Their agreement had been that they would remain married as long as the old man remained alive. As soon as he died, the marriage would be annulled and they would go their separate ways. But what if it was years? Decades, even? Collingwood did look pretty healthy, Murdock thought, looking back at the beach and the receding figures of the old man and the little boy, and the probably annoyed Ranger following them.

Alexandra watched her husband cautiously. What if it was years? He would surely tire of living with a woman who wouldn't…_couldn't_…be a real wife to him. He was only human, and he was a physically healthy, attractive man. Eventually, he would grow weary of her, and of being celibate, and walk away. She wouldn't blame him a bit.

Finally, Murdock turned around, leaning back against the railings. "Well, if it comes to it…with one phone call, I can have him assassinated."

She stared at him a moment, shocked, then realized he was only joking. Probably. She started giggling in spite of her nervousness and aching heart. "You know, you're a lot like an artichoke – I peel off one layer, only to discover another astounding layer underneath."

"Well, feel free to remove all my layers, any time," he said with a slight shrug. Then he realized what he'd just said, and looked at her, embarrassed, his cheeks turning pink. "Er…sorry. That was…that was…vulgar." He straightened and left her alone on the deck.

Alexandra watched him leave and turned back to look at the ocean and wait for her son to return. Seagulls screamed above her head, and people were sunbathing on the beach, and she let her mind go back to that moment in the parking lot, when she could have sworn he was about to kiss her. How would she have reacted? She hadn't let a man so much as touch her in more than four years, and yet…

She turned to look back into the restaurant. James was sitting with Lieutenant Peck at the table, and the two men were squabbling about something again. She finally went back in and sat down at the table, drinking her water and listening to them bicker happily about bleach.

"You could dip the suit in bleach and then it'd be solid white," Murdock pointed out as she sat down beside him.

"And look like a South American pimp? I don't think so."

"Was it black?" she interjected.

"Yeah. Black. Armani. This guy here sprayed it with bleach. _Bleach_."

"Oh? Well, I'm not sure dipping it in bleach would really help. It would just make it yellow, I think. Not a good color for Armani. You'd look like a canary. A pimp for canaries." She looked at her husband, who sipped his wine and sat back, crossing his knees and looking surprisingly relaxed. "You were wearing Armani, the first time we met."

"Yeah, and I looked like hell, too," Murdock shook his head, pulling uneasily at the knot of his tie. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, and she smiled.

"Actually, Captain, you looked very handsome, just as you do now. You should wear suits more often. Not that you don't look…quite nice in jeans and T-shirts, but…" She saw the expression on Peck's face and stopped, blushing. He was grinning, and her husband had that same bewildered expression on his face. She snatched up a glass of wine and thought that she would invent a drinking game – The Compliment James Murdock Drinking Game. Say he's good-looking and drink every time he looks like you're crazy. She took a sip, thinking she'd be an alcoholic if she really played the game.


	10. Kick

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 10

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

(If you're interested, you can check out Alysheba's 1987 Kentucky Derby on YouTube. A great horse. He nearly fell down in the stretch. Seriously. _He_ _almost fell down_!)

Note: The town of Tow ('as in cow'), Texas actually does exist. My great-grandmother was a Tow. So now, the town is mentioned in fiction! Yay! Otherwise, you'll miss it if you drive through and sneeze)

* * *

Alexandra woke up and briefly wondered where she was. She sat up and looked around the dark room, and finally she realized she was back at home, in the mansion in Beverly Hills. Someone had put her to bed, taken her shoes off and tucked her in, but had otherwise left her fully dressed.

When she tried to get out bed, the full force of a headache hit her, and she sat still for several moments as the world tilted and whirled around her. Had she actually tossed down _four_ glasses of wine? Or had it been five? Either way, she felt like a herd of very angry and determined cattle had stampeded across her cerebellum and were now camped out in her stomach.

This was why she didn't drink – aside from another reason she would never get into with anyone. She knew she had used the alcohol to dull her nerves, and to a certain extend it had helped. When her grandfather had come back with Nick and B.A., flush with triumph, the old man had actually seemed rather pleased with the whole situation. He had even signed a check for two-hundred fifty thousand dollars to _each _member of the A-Team, which had left them all kind of stumped. Face had looked like he might wet his pants with glee, while B.A. and Hannibal had stared down at their checks with amazed expressions.

Only Murdock had seemed reluctant to take it. Alexandra had urged him to accept it and cash it as soon as possible, and vaguely recalled telling him that he could buy a car that looked a little more 'shtylish' than a PT Cruiser. Apparently, some time after that, she had been wrestled into the car by someone who smelled extremely nice and who seemed very amused and was driven home, sleeping all the way through Santa Barbara and late afternoon traffic.

"Oh, dear God," she whispered, and rubbed her throbbing forehead. She managed to get to her feet and stepped gingerly across the enormous room – with its high vaulted ceilings and huge window that afforded her a view of Beverly Hills and all its vapidity – and felt like the world was rattling under her feet. It took her a few moments to remember how to turn a doorknob, but she finally made it out into the hall. She paused and listened, and was a little surprised to hear voices downstairs – apparently, they were all in the kitchen, shooting the breeze and bickering, just like always. She heard Face's barking laughter, and B.A.'s high-pitched giggle, and finally her husband's strangely comforting voice, telling them to be quiet.

After checking Nick, and seeing that he was safely tucked into bed, sleeping with his legs tucked under and his butt in the air, just like always, she went back to her bathroom and splashed cool water on her face, washing away her makeup. After bringing her wild hair back under control and changing into her favorite two-piece pajamas, she put on her robe – Chinese silk, with red and gold hand-painted dragons, bought as a personal indulgence in Hong Kong – and went downstairs.

"Well, I have to admit, I did kinda lose count, after a while," Face was saying.

James laughed. "You remember that song? Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias? _To All the Girls I've Loved Before_? I always thought it would be better titled something like '_To All the Girls I've Loved Before…Would You All Meet Me At the Center for Disease Control? We Need to Talk'_"

Hannibal snickered. Alexandra peeked around the corner and could see they were all seated at the table in the huge kitchen, playing cards. The French doors onto the patio were open, and the Colonel was smoking a cigar. B.A. was sitting directly across from him, his back to Alexandra, and holding a losing hand. Lieutenant Peck was to Smith's left, studying his cards and smoking his own cigar. James was directly across from Peck, and so she couldn't see what he was holding. She stepped back out of her husband's line of vision and listened, fascinated.

"Snap!" James said, putting his cards down and clapping his hands. She covered her mouth with her hand, muffling a giggle.

"Murdock, we're playing pok-…oh, dammit. Why do you do that? It's cruel." Face said, sounding only mildly irritated. She heard her husband cackling happily as he dragged his winnings toward him. "I was gonna use that to pay off that suit."

"Aw, hell, forget the suit, will ya? After all, you still have li'l ol' cotton pickin' me…and a quarter of a million buckarumbas – you can buy dozens of Armani suits and maybe a racehorse or two. Wanna lose some more of it?" She heard him shuffle the cards and tap them on the table.

"No way," Face sat back in his seat, yawning and stretching. "I'm beat. I'm going to go home and roll around naked in all this money. I mean…seriously, I've never even _seen _this much money before. It's just…I mean, _seriously_. I'm trying to think of all the stuff I can _buy_. I'll probably blow it all in a week."

"I'm going to invest mine in something useful," B.A. said. "Like…I dunno…an auto repair shop or real estate, or a gym…"

"Or several good-lookin' women," Hannibal said.

"I think one'd do," B.A. muttered.

"Aw, B.A. wants his own girl," James said, snickering gleefully.

"Shuddup, ya crazy fool!" B.A. growled. "C'mon, Hannibal, I'll drive this time."

Alexandra's eyes narrowed. How dare he call her husband a crazy fool!

"What, you think I can't drive?" Hannibal yawned. "What time is it?"

"Three o'clock."

"You're right – I can't drive. You take the wheel."

"Good God – we've been playin' cards that long?" Face asked, sounding aghast.

"Two-hundred K'll do that to a fella, I think. Makes ya jittery and sleepless. Better peace with dry bread and herbs than feasting with strife, as the Good Book says," James pointed out. "I still don't know what I'll do with all that cash. Put it all in an account, I guess. I never had no use for money. Or…maybe it didn't have no use for me. Never had any, either way. I had my caps and my amazin' flyin' machines. And Billy, of course."

Who is Billy, Alexandra wondered.

"Well, I'm sure you'll find something to do with it. Wine, women and song," Face laughed. "Or at least, one woman and song."

"Wine, women and song…which results in becoming a diseased alcoholic," B.A. said. "I ain't into that, man. A little wine sometimes, but never much, and one good woman is all I'd need."

"What kinda woman?" Face asked. "Aside from, you know, _good_?"

"She'd better know how to cook," James said gravely, and Alexandra had to cover her mouth to cover her laughter. She had never seen a man eat as much as Sergeant Baracus. "Coconut tampanade, with toast corners, in particular."

"Yeah, she'd better," B.A. agreed. "But she'd better be into kids. I want a buncha kids someday."

"Then she had better be a regular cup of fecundity," Murdock said. "And broad-hipped, like a linebacker. From what I hear, childbirth hurts a bit. It, like, _stings_ or something."

"What the hell does that mean?" B.A. snapped. "Fecundity. I ain't ever heard that word before."

"It means…fertile," James informed him kindly. "Fecund. From the Middle English, first heard in the late fourteenth century. Meaning productive, fertile, capable of producing offspring, vegetation…"

"I think we get it, Murdock," Hannibal said with a laugh. "I remember you carrying around that dictionary all the time. That old leather-bound one? You and your 'Word of the Day'. Or worse, Language of the Day. Hard to give orders to a guy who insists on only speaking Hindi on Thursdays. I never did know what to expect. Hell, I still don't. I remember you trying out Tagalog on me that time we were in Venezuela. Ended up with a migraine, but you sure did scare that little bootlegger, and they never could figure out our codes. Like having our own Wind Talker."

"I guess it would have been more appropriate to speak Danish or Norwegian on Thursdays – Thor's Day. The Scandinavian god of thund-…yes, yes, shut up, ya crazy fool."

Face scooted his chair back and relaxed, not quite ready to stagger to his 'vette and drive home. "Tell me, Murdock…er…about women."

"They're the opposite of men, with one less appendage but with two extra that more than make up the difference. Higher-pitched voices, usually, unless they're Hillary Clinton, and less hairy…unless they're Janet Reno. They like jewelry of the expensive type, don't appreciate being placed next to better-looking specimens, and have been known to bring down empires with one flutter of the eyelashes. And yet men continue to chase them like rabid bull terriers."

The other three men cackled with laughter, but Face managed to gather himself back together. "I meant, _your_ women. You've had…a few…er…tussles and or tumbles with 'em, eh?"

Alexandra's ears perked up and strained to hear, in spite of her lingering headache. She could smell Hannibal's and Face's cigars and made a mental note to berate them both about that later. But right now, she wanted to know about her husband's past.

"Er…well, I don't really like to kiss and tell," James finally said. She could almost picture him blushing and refusing to meet anybody's eye.

"Ah, come on, Murdock. The stories are the best part!" Face said with a laugh.

"I don't have a lot of stories. And as for talking about _sex_, I've always figured that the more a guy talks about sex, the less he's actually _doing_ it."

There was a heavy silence around the table, and Alexandra couldn't keep from peeking around the corner again, and she was gratified to catch Hannibal and B.A. looking at Face with barely concealed smirks, while James looked away, toward the ovens, but she caught his mouth twitching. Finally, Peck stood, scraping his chair back. "Well…anybody want some _coffee_?"

Hannibal and B.A. burst into laughter, with James trying to shush them, until the Colonel wound down. "I remember a Major Garrity. Colleen Garrity, in particular."

Alexandra pulled back out of sight and wished she had something to write the name on, for future reference. She looked around the room and spied a pen on a table, next to a swanky computerized telephone that neither she nor James had been able to figure out and had finally decided to never touch, in case it was linked to the Pentagon or the Church of Scientology or something. She snatched up the pen and wrote 'Colleen' on her palm.

"Right!" Face said, sounding a little too triumphant. "I remember her, too! She was always comin' around your grill back in Iraq. Askin' for somethin' hot and spicy, but I don't think she was talkin' 'bout _food_!"

James was silent, and she could sense, even with a wall between them, that her husband was uncomfortable. She looked down at the name on her hand and imagined Colleen Garrity – probably tall, red-headed, in Navy whites. And then not in Navy whites, kissing her husband. Finally, she heard him shuffle the cards again. "I really don't want to talk about that."

Hannibal wasn't deterred. "What was she doin' in Iraq, anyway? Wasn't she…_Navy_? Why was she that far in country? I think she mentioned having met you in…where was it? Mannheim or something? What were you doing in Mannheim, anyway?"

"Flyin' some good-for-nothin' General there, from France. He had the worse flatus I've encountered since I helped cleanse a cow back in Tow, Texas. Stank up my chopper somethin' awful, and then he had the nerve to complain that the ride hadn't been very smooth – never mind that it was pourin' rain and there was Doctor-Frankenstein-the-laboratory-is-on-line-one lightnin' flashin' everywhere, but he _had_ to get to Mannheim so he could visit his girlfriend overnight and not have his wife notice he was missing. I was still just a second looie then, so I had to follow orders, but I told him and his excessive gas to go to hell and never come near one of my girls again."

"He's trying to change the subject. Lighting and Frankenstein and flatus. Clever, bud, but not good enough," Face said with a snicker. "I don't recall seeing you with her much, but I know she had the hots for you. _Serious_ hots."

Alexandra frowned. She hadn't exactly expected her husband to be as pure as the driven snow, but the thought of him with another woman made her stomach sour.

"Well, it was over a long time ago, and I _still_ don't want to talk about it," James finally said, sounding annoyed. "You know, that general was killed in a chopper crash near…Manila, I think. Gas prob'ly hit a spark and _kaboom_…"

The other men were silent for several moments, and Hannibal finally cleared his throat. "She liked you a lot, James. Far more than you probably realized. And she was pretty nice, even if she was _Navy_."

"She never said she liked me," James finally said quietly. "Listen, I'm pretty tired m'self. Bar's closed. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. So all of ya…git! Kitchen smells like Cuba exploded, Hannibal. How'm I gonna explain that to Alexandra?"

"Well, that's a subject for pillow talk, I guess," Face told him. She heard the chairs being pushed under the table, and poker chips being gathered up. "I'm sure she'll be eager to hear all about it." She didn't hear James's reply.

Alexandra looked around for a place to hide, and finally rushed out the doors from the living room that led out to the patio and hid behind the wall. She stood there, gasping for breath. She looked down at her hand and noted that 'Colleen' now looked more like 'College'. It had been a felt-tip pen, she realized, and sighed.

She stayed put until she was sure that everyone had left. She started toward the doors when she heard James come into the living room. He was turning off lights, and before she could decide on what to do – reveal herself and the fact that she had been listening to them talk, like some silly teenager, or perhaps climb the trumpet vine to the upstairs balcony overlooking the pool and set off alarms and end up with police and EMT's everywhere and be a comical human interest bit on the local news – he was closing the doors and locking them. Alexandra yelped and rushed around to the other doors that led into the kitchen. They were already locked.

"Uh-oh," she said to her silk bathrobe. "I'm hung-over, and I'm locked out of my house. Isn't that a cunun-…condunun…condomum…quite a pickle?"

* * *

Murdock cleaned up the kitchen, knowing it had better not show any signs of the night's debauchery. If you could all it debauchery – smoking cigars, playing poker for a pot of about fifty dollars and talking about sex and flatulence. He washed the dishes in his usual thorough manner, having been trained by the Army to police the area properly, so that even a picky mom or a sadistic sergeant could be satisfied. Scrubbing latrine floors with toothbrushes had beaten any degree of untidiness out of Murdock, years ago. His only remaining form of rebellion against Army reg had been his cargo pants and T-shirts.

He looked up at the digital clock above the beehive oven and frowned. Three thirty in the morning, and he was wide awake. Maybe he'd go take a swim – he felt pretty overheated anyway, and maybe it would make him tired enough to zonk out for a while. He went to the downstairs powder room and dug in the closet for a towel, and after finding one that looked big enough, he opened the French doors and stepped out into the darkness. He kicked his shoes off, not caring where they landed – they had been hurting his feet and deserved ignominious exile. He sat down in one of the chairs, tore his socks off, and then pulled his dress shirt off, muttering that it had felt like he was wearing chain mail all day. He stood up, and was just starting to take his pants off when he heard a sound and turned to confront whatever was there.

She was standing against the wall, wide-eyed. For a moment, they stared at each other.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I…I heard something out here and…and came out to…investig-..check…and…" She gulped and licked her lips nervously. He walked to her, and saw that she was clutching the front of her bathrobe closed. With one hand, he removed her hand, pulling it forward until her palm rested against his chest. She gasped, and her fingers constricted slightly, brushing his skin. With his other hand, he pushed her gently against the wall. She started to whisper something, but his mouth was on hers before she could say it.

Her lips were so soft, so sweet. When he requested entry, she tried to keep her mouth shut, but he wasn't going to be denied this. Not now. He demanded again, more firmly this time, and applied a little more pressure. She finally surrendered, her lips parting. He tasted, and was instantly addicted. She moved her hand up, to his neck and then to his shoulder and finally to the back of his neck. She slipped her other arm around his neck, and her fingers stroked his hair. He directed his attention to the line of her jaw, and to her neck. She made a soft, helpless mewling sound as he pushed her robe apart and undid a button on her pajama top. Her skin was softer than the silk she was wearing, and he tested her with his hand, stroking the inside of her breast as he returned to her mouth, drawing her in, gratified when she tasted him in return. His fingers finally teased the hard crest of her breast, and she pulled at his hair, whispering his name.

He would never know why. He couldn't understand it. But something – some strange, unnamable instinct that would make him curse himself for days and weeks after – made him suddenly jerk away from her. He stared down at her, watching as she breathed soft little gasps, her eyes still closed. He had molded his body to hers, and had lifted her hips up so that she was nearly astride him, in an age-old position, as his mouth had made love to hers. She finally opened her eyes and looked at him. He ran an agitated hand through his hair, gently set her back away from him, and without a word turned and left her.

* * *

Alexandra lay curled up in her bed, running last night through her mind again and again, trying to figure out what had happened, and why, and why other things hadn't happened and trying to convince herself that she was glad other things _hadn't_ happened but unable to stop thinking about how things might have been if they _had_.

So that's what it's like, to have your mind run around in circles, she thought, a little amused at herself. You start thinking in run-on sentences.

When he had left her, she had nearly collapsed, bereft at the loss of his warmth…his _heat_. She had regained her balance, but certainly not her composure, and stood there for a long time, trying to get flyaway thoughts and emotions gathered and under her own control, but it had been like trying to herd cats. She told herself she should be angry for him kissing her at all, but she wasn't. She decided then that she ought to have been frightened – wasn't she always frightened when any man had so much as _looked_ at her? But that wasn't the case – she hadn't felt even slightly afraid. Alarmed, maybe. But when the alarms go off, the lights turn on. And her lights had been turned _on_, bright and shining and she couldn't seem to turn them off now.

So maybe she was insulted. He had kissed her as though he thought she knew what she was doing. He certainly had known what _he_ was doing, she thought as she finally forced herself to push the sheet off her face and blink against the sunlight, still tasting him on her lips. That…that…what was her name again? Colleen McGillicutty or whatever her name was had probably known quite well, and if she hadn't been his first, then others had probably taught him before, but Alexandra certainly didn't know and wouldn't be able to offer instruction on anything of the sort.

If it hadn't been for Nick, she would have thought her blip of a marriage hadn't even happened, but the last Virgin Birth had been two thousand years ago and wasn't going to happen again, if she remembered Sunday school lessons correctly. So she had been a virgin on her wedding night – hardly unusual, and certainly nothing to be ashamed of, particularly in this day and age. But she had been educated about _that_ in a manner best forgotten. Only she wasn't going to forget, and so she was bewildered as to why all the feelings she was supposed to be experiencing now hadn't manifested themselves at all last night. No fear, no anger, no humiliation.

Just…oh dear.

She clutched the sheet to her chest, and blushed to remember his hand on her breast, and how she had whispered his name, practically begging him to touch her some more. To never stop touching her.

So why _hadn't_ last night been frightening? She flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. She had read various theories about sexually threatening men, and why young girls between the age of twelve and sixteen went crazy for the Beatles, Donny Osmond and the Backstreet Boys and lately, Justin Beiber. They were 'Cute Non-Threatening Boys'. Nothing dangerous about them – her brother John would say that guys like that hadn't dropped their balls yet, and so they would never present any threat to a young girl. The phrasing was a little vulgar, but the theory was fairly sound, as she thought about it.

James Murdock was nothing like _those_ guys. He was no boy. He had kissed her like a man kisses a woman, and had touched her as though he desired her.

Of course, she remembered from one psychology course, once a girl loses interest in the cute boys whose voices hadn't changed yet, they either grew up and sought mature men, or they went completely bonkers and started dating Hell's Angels. She hadn't done _either_, aside from hanging about with punk rockers and going to coffee houses to listen to ludicrously bad poetry everyone called 'deep' but only hadn't rhymed and was written and read by skinny, bitter men wearing berets. She had grown out of that, though. Went to Cambridge, got her useless degree in art history, and let her grandfather continue spoiling her rotten and direct her toward the 'right' sort of man. She had stopped listening to her grandmother, wore cashmere and pearls and hobnobbed with fellow aristocrats, bought the white dress and married Simon Hewitt, scion of a positively ancient and prominent but not terribly rich family from Warwick.

She straightened her bed, put away her clothes and dressed for the day, selecting a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt displaying characters from the _Simpsons_, and put on a pair of running shoes. She checked her hair, applied a little pink lipstick, and nodded at herself in the mirror.

Alexandra decided that she needed to talk to her husband. Tell him everything, get it all out in the open, and see how he reacted. If he wanted to stay, she would be…amenable to the idea. Yes, she nodded again. That was a proper term. If he wanted to go, she would accept that, too. It was too soon, after all, to be broken-hearted if his answer was no. She decided she wouldn't even cry.

Murdock paced in the kitchen, struggling with his stress. What the hell had he been _thinking_?

You weren't thinking, dumbass. Something south of the border was thinking, and not well, and that never thinks at all anyway. What were you gonna do? Ravish her, right there by the pool, with her kid upstairs asleep, dreaming about sugarplums and Mort from _Penguins of Madagasar_? Jesus, you're such a damned _idiot_!

He figured he should call Face. Ask him about this. 'Hey, I nearly gave my wife a wallbanger last night, and I don't think that was quite the right tack to take. Whattaya think I oughta do?' He would know what to do, and what to say, and how to say it. He tried to put himself in 'Face mode'. He had pulled dozens of scams with Peck over the years, after all. He knew he was actually an even better actor than the conman, but this wasn't something he could bluff his way through. He had some serious explaining to do, and had no clue how to make things right.

He turned to start toward the stairs and almost collided with Alexandra. She stepped back, and brushed her hair back, trying to look casual. She even smiled at him. _Great_. She was so angry she had decided to take the sweet route – they'd treat each other like customers, instead of like they were married. 'Want some more coffee? More sugar? Cream? Bacon too crispy? How're your pancakes? Oh, dear, I'm sorry! Let me do that again. I'll add rat poison to the batter this time!'

"Uh…hi," he said at last, licking his lips nervously. She looked _glorious_ in those jeans and that rather tight T-shirt that made parts of Bart and Lisa Simpson a little closer to him than others. He swallowed and tried not to look at that. _A couple of parts that make up the difference_, he thought. Definitely.

"Hi," she answered him, and shuffled her feet a little. "Listen…James, I…uh…I think we need to…"

"I should apologize," he said in a rush, cutting her off. "I don't know what came over me last night. I swear, I'll…I'll never do that again. It was horrible of me…I'm sorry."

Her mouth tightened into a thin, pink line and Murdock sensed something wasn't quite right. He took a step back, his instincts telling him that the rockets were coming for him, and no amount of climbing high and shutting off the engines was going to help. Danger! Danger! Run!

"You're apologizing to me?" she said, her voice deceptively soft.

Am I? Yes. Of course, stupid. Get on with it! "Yes. I am. I'm sorry. I…my behavior last night was…was…_vulgar_. Disgusting, actually, and…"

"You're _apologizing_ to me?" she repeated, her voice sharper this time. "_You're apologizing to me_?"

She crossed her arms and her eyes narrowed, and he vaguely remembered the last time someone had been this angry at him, and that guy had had a _taser_. He paused and licked his lips again, ready to grovel for her forgiveness if necessary. He looked down at the Mexican tile floors and thought that it was going to _hurt_, dropping to his knees, but…

"You…you…oh, you…you ridicu-…oh! You bloody _bastard_!" She then did something that he never, ever would have expected: she kicked him in the shin. _Hard_.

He let out a shout of pain, said a really, really dirty word in Finnish and dropped like a sack of wheat. He lay there for a minute, watching her walk away, wondering if all marriages eventually result in cracked shinbones. Suddenly, he shot back to his feet and limped out into the living room, trailing her like an enraged panther. "Wait just a minute!" he shouted at her. "Come back here!"

She whirled around, her hand on the graceful, hand-carved mahogany statue of Eros that topped the end of the stair railing. Her eyes were blazing with rage. "Yes, Captain?" she said with acid sweetness.

"What the hell was that?" he raged at her. "I was doing exactly what you want! Surely you wanted an _apology_!"

"Did I? You want to know what I want?" she yelled back. "You want to know what I want?"

"Yeah, go ahead. Tell me."

She went to slap him then, but he caught her arm and pulled her roughly against him. When their bodies made contact, they both froze, their eyes locking, their gazes dropping to each others' mouths. But she suddenly reactivated, and started struggling again, kicking and snarling even as he got her into a fairly firm but gentle hold, holding her arms behind her and doing his best to not think about how her breasts felt against his own chest.

"You let go of me right now!" she shouted, and tried to jerk her arms loose. "You big jerk! I can't believe you would do that to me! How dare you! _How dare you_!"

Murdock was ready to start shaking her, to at least get her to stop yelling and listen to him – no matter what she did, he wasn't going to strike her. He let go of her, and that only got him the slap she was originally aiming for.

The doorbell rang. He threw his hands in the air, frustrated and infuriated, and she stormed up the stairs. He heard her door slam shut, and two pictures fell from the wall beside him, making him jump. Running a hand through his hair, he limped to the door and flung it open, expecting Face or possibly Hannibal. He would tell either of them to get hence to the Devil and then go upstairs to finish this fight with his wife.

Instead, Sir Henry Collingwood stood at the door, leaning on his cane. When he saw the reddening handprint on Murdock's cheek, a smile slowly spread across his face.

"So. I see the honeymoon's over."


	11. Dolce

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 11

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

**Note**: Anybody recognize the _District 9_ reference in here? I mean, it's kind of obvious, but…anyway.

**Second note**: French, Spanish and Italian phrases are from InterTran and Babylon. Accuracy is a stab in the dark with those sites.

**Third note**: I highly recommend listening to Ralph Stanley's 'O Death'. Will scare you to pieces, but also makes you think about your mortality. _Seriously_.

I would have posted this earlier today, but the computer had some kind of nervous breakdown, which caused me to nearly have a breakdown of my own.

Anyway. Good Lord, this chapter went wild and wouldn't stop for quite a while. Hope it's not too much. I usually stop at about 4000+ words. This one went on like a Senate bill, only I hope it's not as boring or pointless.

* * *

"Grandpa!" Murdock spread his arms wide. "Give us a hug!"

The old man's smile faded and he attempted to fix his grandson-in-law with a hard glare, but that didn't appear to work at all. Instead, the pilot only appeared to be amused, despite the hand-print on his cheek.

Thank God for Face, Murdock thought as he stepped back and gestured for the old geezer to come in. Over the years, he had learned, from the conman, how to heap on the loads of BS, when the time called for it. He glanced outside and saw a stretch limo at the curb, a guy in a black uniform leaning against it, looking bored. Well, those aren't exactly unusual in this neighborhood, so no problem there. No one would be wondering if there was a wedding or a funeral going on, anyway. He went to the wet bar but was halfway there before he remembered there was no alcohol in the house. Too bad, he thought. I could use some Everclear right about now. He went into the kitchen, dug around in the refrigerator until he found a bottle of Dr Pepper and poured himself and Pol Pot's best friend out there some drinks, plopped in some ice cubes, and went back out. He handed a glass to Collingwood, who was already seated in a Louis XIV chair that Murdock had only found useful for sliding off onto the floor.

"Where's my granddaughter?" the old coot snarled, without preamble.

"Upstairs," Murdock nodded. "And it's good to see you, too, Gramps."

"I am not your _Gramps_, you ridiculous man!"

"Then what should I call you? Gramp? Grump? Grinch? Gravy? Gretzsky?" Murdock took a drink of the sweet soda and sat back in a wing-backed chair that had been constructed in England during the reign of King Rupert the Only Slightly Inbred. "I should call you something. Or perhaps I should just call your chauffer and tell him to take you away?"

"I want to see my granddaughter, and my great-grandson…"

"Yeah, yeah, your heir, the hope and aim of your whole miserable, grasping existence, blah-dee-blah, and of course the worthless cipher who bore him. I'll go _get_ her." He plunked the glass down on the table by the chair, not caring that the table was made of ebony and worth more than he'd made during his whole erratic service to his country. He went upstairs and paused outside Alexandra's door. He glanced down the hallway to Nick's door, and _hoped_ the kid hadn't been awakened by all the shouting of a few minutes ago, or by the doorbell ringing. Let him sleep through this one, he begged the God he had always believed _in_ but sometimes had difficulty _believing_.

The door opened, and when she saw him, she started to slam it in his face, but he stuck his foot in and pushed it open again and went inside, not giving a damn how she felt about it at this point. "We have company, so put on something pretty and smile big."

She crossed her arms and gave him a look that would have made him drop dead to the floor, blood oozing from every orifice, if it had been an actual weapon.

He put his hands on his hips and took a step toward her, but he was proud of her for not even flinching. She just continued to throw ocular daggers at him.

"Your _grandfather_ is here, baby. Go. Change. Clothes."

Her mouth tightened, and he thought about those sweet lips as she went through an internal struggle. "I will not take _orders_ from you, Captain!" she hissed.

"Really? Okay. I'll just find somethin' for you, and I'll dress you myself. Got somethin' in pastels? Or maybe we should try leather." He started toward her closet, and she finally moved, rushing after him and blocking his path. He nodded. "Well, at least you're moving again. Listen, baby. There's no time to go over this argument, okay? The old man is here and he wants to see you, and Nick. You'll have to do for now, 'cause the kid's still asleep and I ain't wakin' 'im up to _that_. So _please_ change clothes and come down there as soon as you can, because I don't have much conversation aside from the weather and the condition of the roads."

Alexandra put her hands on her hips and glared at him, breasts rising and falling in her agitation, which distracted Murdock considerably. "What is he doing here?"

He dragged his mind out of the gutter and got back to the right flight path. "Maybe he's goin' into a diabetic coma from the Dr Pepper I gave him. Otherwise, he's sittin' on that Louis the Whatsit's chair in the living room, gripping his cane and contemplating world domination. Y'know, he reminds me of a guy I saw in a movie once – a really nasty bugger in a wheelchair who wanted to chop some poor guy's arm off. But anyway, when you get down there, I hope you can act as though you adore me and agree with everything I say."

"Only if you say you're a _jerk_!" she snapped.

Murdock's fists clenched, along with his jaw, and he waited a couple of ticks before he finally turned on his heel and left her alone, closing the door quietly behind him. He clattered downstairs and resumed his position in the Slightly Inbred chair and crossed his knees, watching the old man carefully. Collingwood had stacked his hands on top of his cane and was glaring at him. Okay, Murdock thought. Maybe he was just thinking of taking over Asia and parts of North Africa.

"And how, exactly, do you expect to support my granddaughter?"

"Well, the quarter of a million you gave me yesterday will be a start," Murdock nodded. "Nice weather we're having, huh? Clear skies for flight, excellent visibility. No haze at all." He took another drink and wiped the circle of water off the black wood of the table. "Breeze out of the south. 'bout four knots." Murdock had a habit, no matter where he was, of going outside in the morning and tossing some dust into the air, to test the wind. He'd lick his finger and check the horizon for what was coming. He had done it since childhood, and had never bothered to try and break the habit.

"You're a pilot?" Collingwood asked him, a bushy eyebrow lifting.

"Yep." Murdock glanced down and noted that he was wearing cargo pants and a Hawaiian shirt. His feet were bare. Didn't matter. Let the old tyrant think what he likes. If he had showed up about half an hour ago, he would have found James Q. Murdock buck naked and taking his seventh cold shower in less than six hours. In fact, he could already feel a nice head cold coming on.

* * *

Alexandra fumed and cursed and muttered as she changed into a very light, soft, camel-colored body jacket she had purchased at a garage sale in Oxnard. It wrapped around her, hugging her curves, with a hem that stopped just above her knees. She had been startled after buying it ($3), seeing on the tag that it had come from Victoria's Secret. The large woman selling it had given her a cold look and said it was a size four. Alexandra, four months pregnant at the time, hadn't been sure she was going to get back to her usual slim (okay, _skinny_) size, but she had figured she'd at least make a goal for herself and took it anyway, wondering if or when that woman had ever worn it.

She pulled on silk stockings and found matching light brown pumps, and searched around for suitable jewelry until she finally located a silver chain with a locket containing a baby photo of Nick. She brushed her hair, twisted it back with an alligator clip and checked herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were still flushed with anger, and her eyes were still snapping.

He had _apologized_. For kissing her! Hadn't known what had come over him? She applied a little blush to her cheeks, though she barely needed any, and put on fresh lipstick. Well, he'd just have to see what he was missing then, wouldn't he? By the end of the bloody day, he'd certainly know what was coming over him, and it would be a cold shoulder and maybe hot coals and a two-by-four. She was going to lay it on _thick_, for her grandfather's sake, and if Captain James Quinn Murdock still wanted to live like a bloody monk, then she wasn't going to stop him!

* * *

She did make a pretty damned arresting sight, Murdock thought as she descended the stairs and stood at the landing, hands clasped in front, apparently ready for inspection. The old man didn't stand up, but Murdock did, because he'd been taught to by his grandmother and also because it easier to conceal his physical reaction to her, behind a magazine he had snatched up from the coffee table. The color of her dress was perfect for her creamy skin and her blue eyes. The overall effect was devastating. He stood there, staring at her, knowing he had a pretty stupid expression on his face.

"Hello, sweetheart," he finally choked out, just barely remembering to use the right inflection, and she gave him a smile Meryl Streep would have been proud of, it was so masterful.

"Good morning, darling," she answered sweetly, and stepped around him before he could even touch her. "Grandfather. What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?"

"Well, you and I and your _husband_ need to discuss a few things, and I want to see my great-grandson again."

"He's asleep," Murdock said, checking his watch. It was only eight in the morning. "He'll wake up for SpongeBob, I'm sure. Do you want some breakfast?" he asked Alexandra.

"Later. I really can't imagine what we'd have to discuss with you, Grandfather," she pointed out. "As Colonel Smith told you yesterday, James and I will bring Nick with us to England next week, for a visit. I'd suggest you go on back to London now and whip the servants into a cleaning frenzy. I doubt the house has been dusted in the past four years, after all."

The old man didn't seem fazed. "We do have to discuss the matter of my will – I suspect I'll have to make some changes to it now that things have changed so much, and I feel a preliminary discussion is in order."

Alexandra rolled her eyes and glanced at Murdock, who to his credit didn't seem terribly interested in Henry Collingwood's will.

"There is a Baronetcy to pass on to my legal heir, and since I can't _legally_ skip over you to the boy without a major to-do, there's that matter to go over. Then there's the money and the company, and of course the castle in Scotland, and the estate in Cornwall…"

Murdock's eyebrow lifted, and he looked at his wife, who looked _tired_ and more than a little exasperated.

"When are you ever going to learn, Grandfather, that titles don't mean much if you don't have any respect for people without them?" she asked tightly. "I'd rather let the damned baronetcy die with you. After all, it ought to be pointed out that your name died with you, did it not? No more Collingwoods anywhere. Not even an unsuitable cousin to pass it on to, like in a Jane Austen novel. Just my mother, who married an earl – who outranked you – and she died having _me_, and then I married Simon Hewitt, who was only outranked by…" She shook herself then, and paled.

_Persuasion_, Murdock thought. Good book. Bittersweet, but a good one anyway. And why did Alexandra look so shaken? He looked at the old man, and back at her, wondering about Simon Hewitt. Whoever that guy was, he must have been a piece of work.

"Nick will be a Hewitt. Or would be, if I had registered his birth that way. That's hardly a name to be proud of, and after Simon died, I don't recall you coming around to help me in any way at all. You just washed your bloody hands of me and walked away, saying I had made my bed and it was time for me to sleep in it! So I don't want your title or your damned money! So you may fold yourself back into your limo and go straight back to the fourth circle of hell, from whence you _came_!"

Murdock snatched Alexandra's hand and pulled her gently against his side, sensing her strain. "Enough of that, baby," he murmured. "To the kitchen. Come on, Colly. Shuffle along behind us. You'll get there soon. Mind the threshold – it's about an inch high, so watch your step." She allowed him to pull her into the kitchen, and looked up at her husband, blinking through her tears. "Are you okay?" he asked her, concerned. She looked like she might collapse into tears at any moment.

"Make him leave," she whispered. "Please just make him _leave_!"

* * *

Sir Henry Collingwood – 15th Baronet – refused to leave until he had said his piece. He sat down at their kitchen table and informed Murdock and Alexandra that he had six months to live at best, and that he only wanted to try and make things as right as he could. His pious little speech about how he just wanted to make amends fell on two sets of skeptical ears, however. Finally, the old man clasped his hands together on the table and leaned on his forearms, wincing a little from pains he seemed to be feeling from his lower back and stomach.

"I was wondering if perhaps you and your husband wouldn't stay in England until…well, until I meet my end."

"Your end?" Alexandra lifted her chin. "That could be six months or six years from now. James has his own life to lead and…" She stopped when she caught her husband's sharp look.

"We promised one week, Collingwood. No more," Murdock snapped. He hated England. Hated how everybody drove on the wrong side of the road, and how it was always cloudy or raining, and how nobody could spell and that the food was inedible at best and horrifying at worst. Hated how they all went around wearing boots they called Wellies, uttering phrases like 'Bob's your uncle!' as if they were drunk all the time and just making up words as they went along. You couldn't just say 'Bring me some Elgin hot gut and a dinner roll'. You had to say 'Bring me some bangers and a nudger', which sounded more like peri- and post-coital sex to him, for them to know what you were talking about, and _never _ask for a freaking napkin. They used the wrong words for _everything_ over there – some of them _were_ English, yes, but never seemed to be lined up into sentences he could make sense of, and he had been glad to leave, his headache finally lifting as he'd crossed the Channel back to France for another flight to Austria and a warm bed and lots of beer. Sure, littering was punishable by death in Austria, but at least they had good _beer_.

"I'm sure James wouldn't mind visiting the home country of his own _wife_," Collingwood said, doing his best to look and sound like a sick, harmless old man. Murdock sat back in his seat, thinking about Al Megrahi. Harmless, my ass, he thought. He's got some kind of plan in mind, and since I can't break out the hedge clippers and use them to extract the idea from his skull manually, I'll have to try another angle.

"And if we stay in England for six months and you still don't cash in your chips, what do we do then?" Asphyxiation, he thought darkly. There's a capital idea!

The old man smiled, looking more pleased than Murdock liked. "You're free to go back, of course. Whether I'm dead or just barely alive."

Six months in England. A beautiful country, really. It had actually been London he'd hated. Springtime in Devonshire was nice, he'd heard, if you could stand nearly freezing to death every night. But he wasn't familiar with Cornwall, except that it was a duchy belonging to the Prince of Wales and game hens were found there (what about the cockerels? Were there Cornish game cockerels? If not, where did the hens come from in the first place?). But he wasn't entirely sure he could stand to lose that much weight – he'd need a trip to Italy to recover. He looked at Alexandra, who was even paler than before.

"We'll think about it," was all Murdock said. She looked horrified, but at least it got the old man to get up and limp toward the door.

"Oh, by the way, I was wondering…" Collingwood turned back to look at them as they followed him into the foyer. "I was wondering if perhaps I could stay the night here. My flight out is very early tomorrow morning, and my driver has family he wants to visit tonight, in Bel Air. Would that be all right?"

"No, it certainly wouldn't!" Alexandra burst out, furious. She looked at him, a desperate plea in her eyes, but Murdock saved that for later discussion. He wanted to be reasonable, and also to get a better idea of what this guy was after. Alexandra had bred him his heir, after all. She had no money he could get, much less need, and what good would it do him anyway if he really was dying? The three billion he had now wasn't going to stop Death from coming for a visit, whether it was six months or six years from now, and he couldn't take any of it with him.

Murdock thought about Ralph Stanley's chilling song called 'O Death'. _Time and mercy is out of your reach_ was a line that had a way of spooking him, even now. He had played that song once, while flying some Saudi prince from Mecca to Dubai. The prince had scrambled off the chopper the second it landed, running hell bent for leather for the stairs and a little clot of other princes waiting for him at the limo, the prince fortunately remembering to duck or he would have met Death a lot sooner than he would have liked.

Maybe the old goat just liked to have control. He knew a lot about people who liked to control things. Hadn't he spent four years with folks just like that? He eyed the old man, and knew that six months wouldn't be all that bad, if it meant proving to the world and particularly to Alexandra that Sir Henry Collingwood was but few and a passing evil and that she had nothing to fear. He'd even have a little fun while he was at it. He'd teach them to speak English and to spell, and how to drive properly. Maybe he'd get Hannibal, Face and B.A. to come along for an extended vacation – they deserved that much, and Boscoe could certainly stand to shed a few pounds. Even better, the old codger could pay their expenses, if he was that keen on having Alexandra and Nick in England. Murdock smiled at the idea – he'd put them all up at the Claridge's, the Dorchester, or the Savoy and let them drain as much cash out of Collingwood as possible.

Not that Murdock would allow him much, if any, access to either of them for anything more than the most _polite_ amount of time possible.

"I think we can put you up in one of the guest rooms," Murdock finally said, nodding. Alexandra stared at him, aghast. Collingwood looked pleased as punch and motioned for his chauffer to bring in his luggage.

* * *

The three of them ate breakfast in the kitchen, James preparing a full English breakfast that even Collingwood seemed impressed by, even if her husband had appeared vaguely unnerved by the kippers. Once the dishes were cleared, she and James went upstairs on the pretense of waking Nick. Alexandra shut her bedroom door, stood silently for a moment, and finally turned to face her husband. "How _dare you_!" she hissed. "How dare you do this to me! I have never been so humiliated in my entire life! He's looking for weak spots, don't you see? He'll be watching our every move! And _six months_ in England? Six months? I'll end up in a madhouse!"

"Isn't that where you're from? England, I mean. Not a madhouse. _I'm_ from the madhouse. But I'd be happy to go back to Llano, if there was anybody there to see. But there's not – just a buncha cedar and prickly pear, and lotsa goats. But you've got family there that you would like to see, right? Your grandmother, and your brothers. So calm down, will you?" He looked around the room, noting the French quilt on the bed, and that the sheets were a soft, soothing blue. She hadn't really decorated the room yet, but it definitely looked like it was her style – a tall armoire, with hand-painted flowers all over it, and a huge whitewashed four-poster bed up on its own dias, kind of like the beds you'd see at Versailles. The floors were covered in carpet so thick he felt like he was wading.

"Calm down? I'm supposed to calm down?" Alexandra paced for several moments, her mouth set in a firm line, when suddenly she turned a shade of green he hadn't seen since training days at Fort Hood and rushed into the bathroom. He followed her in, and watched in shock as she wretched violently into the toilet.

"Lord save her," he said, and went to her side, holding her hair back as she continued to vomit. When she finished at last, she seemed to just…deflate, like a three-day old balloon, and collapsed into his chest.

"You don't know what it was like! You don't know!" she said, her voice weak and shaking. "You don't know what he's like!"

Apparently, he's bad enough to make a woman need to toss her cookies, he thought sadly. He held her against his chest, kneeling on the bathroom floor and holding her while she struggled to pull herself back together. Strangely, she wasn't crying. She was just gasping for breath and shaking, in the throes of a full-blown panic attack. He knew all about _that_. He had had few of his own, and would likely have a few more before he quit this mortal coil. Very gently, he helped her to her feet and led her over to the sink. He got her a glass of water and let her wash her mouth out, then led her back to her room and to her bed. "Just lie down, baby. It's all right. I won't let anything happen to you. Or to Nick."

"You…you promise?" she asked him, her anger and her fear forgotten, if only in a weak moment. "You really promise?"

"I swear. I swear I won't let him hurt you. And I promise, it won't be that bad. We may not even have to stay there long, if he's really…you know…_dying_. Then we'll come back home and everything will be fine. You'll get to see your grandmother again, and your friends, right? It might be…it might be a nice trip all around. We won't stay at his house, either. We'll stay someplace else. If it comes to it, we'll get a box stall at Newmarket and watch the morning gallops."

She stared at him for a moment, and he was gratified when she looked like she might laugh. She dragged her teeth over her lower lip, fighting off her amusement, and he stared at her mouth, mesmerized. Bad timing, he told himself. He stood up and tried to find something to do with his hands.

"Go on ahead and go to sleep. I'll get the old buzzard situated and try to figure out how to keep him away from Nick."

"You'll…you'll wake me for lunch?" she asked him, as he turned the light off. She had kicked off her shoes and was stretching out on the bed, clearly exhausted. All her rage and terror had taken a lot out of her – he knew the feeling all too well, though it had all been for different reasons. There'd be no 'My crash and capture at Mosul and subsequent unpleasant events trumps your miserable childhood' games here. Misery isn't exactly a worthy subject for competition.

He fled.

* * *

Alexandra was indeed awakened at noon by James, who told her dinner was ready, which momentarily confused her. She looked out the window and saw that the sun was only halfway across the sky, and he caught her look. "Oh. Right. _Lunch_. Where I come from, we called lunch dinner and dinner was called supper. Remember…hillbillies."

She shook her head. Her husband was no hillbilly. Awkward and eccentric, and apt to put his foot in his mouth more often than not, but no hillbilly speaks dozens of languages and flies anything with wings and maybe things without wings, was a gourmet cook, and looks _that_ good in Armani. She climbed out of bed and put her shoes back on. "Grandfather will expect us to dress for _dinner_," she said.

"I think he also expects us to sleep in the same room."

Alexandra looked up at him, eyes widening. He was still in his cargo pants and Hawaiian shirt, barefoot and unconcerned about his attire, but his expression was guarded. Her anger at him had faded away, replaced by her terror at her grandfather's presence in the house and whatever his plans were for her future. And she knew that if her grandfather really put two and two together and realized that this whole marriage was just a sham, then he would go in for the kill. So being pissed at James was not a good idea – not now, anyway. She'd save being pissed for later.

Right now, she had to figure out how she was going to sleep at all, with James in the same room.

"I…I suppose that's a reasonable…reasonable conclusion to draw," she said, moving away to her vanity and sitting down on the little stool, peering at herself in the mirror. Her hands were shaking as she reached for her brush and went to work at putting herself back in order. "I s'ppose you can s-sleep on the floor…"

He nodded. "Right. I've slept on lots of floors. One time I slept on the floor of a jail in Mexico. They have strictly enforced illegal immigration laws, oddly enough. I mean, I didn't even know I was _in_ Mexico, until suddenly I'm surrounded by fifteen _Federales_, all aimin' guns at me. I'm yellin' 'Let me see your badges!' and one of 'em says, 'Badges? We don't need no stinking badges!' Spent the night singin' 'Ain't Livin' Long Like This', sitting on the cell floor, playing cards with rats. Not a fun night, let me tell ya, but my conversational Spanish improved considerably."

She observed him by way of the mirror, unable to keep herself from admiring his wide shoulders and muscled arms. His hair was back to its usual wild state – obviously it could not be tamed – and he needed to shave. But no matter how angry she tried to be with him, for this morning, there was no denying that he was a beautiful, dangerous animal. A scarred one, obviously, but still quite easy on the eyes. She looked at herself in the mirror, and saw that she was blushing. She put the makeup wand down.

Her dress was wrinkled from her nap, so she decided she'd better change into something else. Bloody hell – she had changed clothes three times a day, when she'd been living with her grandfather. He had _insisted_ that meals be formal, even when there were no guests in the house, and even now, before even taking a meal in front of the telly, she had to fight off the urge to put on a nice outfit.

"Well, I'll go change, then," he nodded. "I've still got that suit…you know, the one I was wearing in Hong Kong. Face said I oughta keep it, and then dragged me to a tailor one day. I nearly attacked the guy, I'm afraid – I don't know 'bout you, but when a total stranger starts touchin' you in certain places, you get a little defensive."

She smiled and stood. "Dinner…er…supper was always at six. What are you making?"

"Uh…baked sea bream, with tomatoes and basil. I always wanted to try that one – never really had a chance to tackle it. Once I figured out how to operate the computer in the office without blowing up Thailand, I printed off a recipe. I got the fish and the other stuff the other day."

"Is Nick up and about?"

"Yep. Steering clear of the old man, to the best of his ability, but your grandfather insists on sitting out there by the pool, watching him color. Kid has good manners, but he won't like havin' to dress up. He already doesn't like this whole arrangement."

"You told him – about…about England?"

"Not quite. He knows we're going next week. But he's mainly just kinda rattled about Gramps staying overnight."

"Oh. Right." Alexandra went into her walk-in closet and looked at her sparse wardrobe. A tight budget had restricted her buying options, over the years. She hadn't even really packed much of her trousseau, from before her wedding, to take with her to America. Most of her clothes came from garage sales, consignment shops and Goodwill. Granted, it was all good quality, often castoffs of women who wore an outfit once and tossed it aside, but there wasn't much to pick from. She finally snatched a black cocktail dress off a hanger and began undoing the coatdress. She was down to her bra and panties when she heard him knocking lightly on the door. She held the dress to her chest, turning pink all over.

"Yes? Stay out there!"

"Oh. Right. Alexandra, I'm…uh…sorry I…uh…apologized."

She could just see him wincing. Poorly constructed sentences in English, she thought, successfully swallowing a giggle. From a man who spoke more languages than could be heard at the UN. She lifted her chin, in order to put the proper amount of hauteur into her voice.

"Well, you certainly ought to be," she told him through the door.

"I was an idiot."

She did like a Southern drawl on a man. Even after all that had happened, she still liked to hear that 'Now be sweet' accent, and now she had a strong preference for drawls mingled with a central Texas hill country twang. One day, she was going to ask him to just read a phone book to her. "_Quite_."

"Right. Well…er…yeah. See ya downstairs."

She held the dress to her chest for several more moments before finally peeking around the door and seeing that he had left. Alexandra pulled the dress on, looked at herself in the full-length mirror and struck a dramatic 'Hey, big boy' pose and burst into laughter.

* * *

Supper was a successful disaster, from Murdock's way of thinking. Sure, that was an oxymoron, but all in all, it had gone well and horribly all at once. The old man kept asking Nick questions the kid didn't know how to answer, until he was annoyed. But the old man also seemed delighted with his great-grandson, calling him a 'proper Collingwood'. Alexandra was seated directly across from Murdock at the long table, with the old man next to her, the boy at the head of the table and at Collingwood's elbow.

"D'you know, lad, I've got a present waiting for you, back at Colecort House…and that will be yours one day, y'know." Collingwood glanced over at Alexandra, who was eating her sea bream and apparently finding it good, because she glanced up at Murdock and gave him a slight smile.

Nick perked up a little. He did like to receive presents – he had sat up with Murdock until bedtime last night, putting together a Bristol Beaufighter he had bought some years ago but had never gotten around to, and just as he had promised, it had taken flight, zooming across the pool and sailing through the open French doors into the living room, the pilot talking the boy through it, not taking the controls, crowding him out, like folks had done to him when he'd been a kid. "What is it?"

"Well, you have to promise to love it, and take proper care of it." Collingwood reached into his pocket and extracted a photo. He handed it to the boy, who looked at it, and his eyes widened. He showed the picture to Murdock – it was of a spotted pony, probably a Dartmoor or suchlike.

"Look, James! It's a pony!"

"Right." Murdock glanced up at Collingwood. So that was the old man's game: only food ran second to ponies, in the race to win a boy's heart. And not by much. "Hank, I'm not sure a pony is a good idea for a four-year old."

Nick looked at him, then at his mother, who took a deep breath. Collingwood looked disgruntled.

"He's never been around horses, after all, and they are…dangerous animals." Murdock looked at the picture again. The pony was probably about as dangerous as Al Franken was funny, and falling from it would be the equivalent of falling off a bed, but he knew from experience that ponies _bite_. That nasty little Shetland pony his snooty cousin Jane had owned had given new meaning to the term 'Hell Bitch', as per Larry McMurtry. He had laughed himself sick when the pony had taken a chunk out of her arm one day.

"I agree…" Alexandra said softly. Nick looked disappointed, but his mother smiled at him. "You will be allowed to see it, of course, and go for a ride, but James or…or I will have to be there, too, no arguments." The boy seemed to accept his – his mother was using the same gently implacable voice he had heard throughout his life, and it meant that there would indeed be no further discussion on the matter.

"Thank your grandfather," Murdock said tiredly. The boy gravely expressed his gratitude. The timer went off then, and Murdock went to get dessert – New York style cheesecake. He put the cake on the table and cut Alexandra a piece, then the old man and Nick (kids always ate last, when Murdock was growing up – that had just been the way things _were_).

"Oh, my…this is delicious," Alexandra said, and stifled laughter. "Where on earth did you learn to cook, anyway?"

"Here an' there," Murdock shrugged. "You end up in Thailand, you learn how to cook Thai. When in Rome, you learn how to make people gain lots and lots of weight."

"Oh, you like Italian?" she asked him. The old man was watching their exchange with narrowed eyes.

"No." Murdock futzed around with his piece of cheesecake, not hungry any more. Not for cheesecake, anyway. "I mean…uh…not…really. It does stuff to my stomach. Unspeakable things. But I know how to cook it. It's easy. Just sing opera to it and it comes out just fine."

"You seem to travel quite a bit, Captain," Collingwood broke in. "Out of the country a lot?"

"Not lately," Murdock answered absently. He was still staring at Alexandra, who was savoring the cheesecake, her eyes closed as she took another bite. Damn, he thought. I'd give up every penny of that quarter-million to put that look on her face under considerably different circumstances.

Collingwood cleared his throat, like the bark of a grouchy Dobermann, and Alexandra jumped. Murdock glared at the old man, then looked down at his watch. It was almost Nick's bedtime. His mother took the signal and smiled at her son.

"All right, Nick. Off to Bedfordshire."

"But I'm not tired," Nick said. To emphasize this point, he yawned. Alexandra laughed and yawned into her own hand. Murdock picked the boy up and carried him upstairs. He set the boy on his bed and pulled his shoes off, and helped him into his pajamas. He sat on the boy's bed and listened as Nick said his sleepy, semi-coherent prayers, vaguely amused and not a little touched to hear his own name mentioned in the 'God bless' list. He couldn't remember the last time anybody had prayed for him – maybe his mother? But then, she prayed for everybody, friend or enemy. 'It's right near impossible to hate somebody you're prayin' for, baby', she had told him. Seemed like everything she had ever told him was absolutely right, even if he had thought differently then.

Once Nick was safely asleep, Murdock went back downstairs. Alexandra was washing dishes. The old man was in the living room, talking on his cell phone, and when heard his grandson-in-law come in, he switched from English to what sounded a little bit like _Welsh_. Murdock only had to switch gears and heard Collingwood tell someone back home to prepare a proper room for a little boy of four years. "I have every intention of having the boy with me for some duration."

Like hell, he thought, and went into the kitchen.

* * *

"Welsh?" Alexandra said, watching James dry the dishes. The kitchen naturally had a swoopy, stainless steel dishwasher, but neither she nor her husband liked using them. There was something about washing and drying dishes that allowed a person to do some thinking as they scrubbed and dried. Murdock had muttered to her that he had never use an automatic dishwasher in his life, and wouldn't, no matter how tired he got. Most of his best thinking had been done while scrubbing pots.

"Yeah. Said he wanted a room set up for Nick, at the house."

"And where did you learn Welsh?"

"Uh…New Zealand…"

"Thank you, Captain Evasive." She handed him another plate, and he began drying it. "I didn't know he spoke Welsh."

"Does he speak anything else?"

"'Shout' and 'Curse', as I recall. 'Demand', and oh, 'Scare the bejeezus out of people, but talk nicely to the dogs'."

"He don't scare me, baby." He snickered. "I took Spanish and French, back in high school. I couldn't understand why ever'body in those textbooks were so obsessed with relatives, articles of clothing, and furniture. _Ça c'est les vaisselier de mon tante Lorraine_. I remember getting up and doing my French dialog, so I could pass the damn course. _Qui donne une merde qui posséder les vaisselier?_ _Est-ce qu'il y a pas de photographier de nu jeune fille dans ceux-ci livres_? I got suspended for that. Then it was Spanish - _Esto es el zapato de my tío Pablo_. _Yo hacía no dormir con su esposa. Yo único tenían coito con ella_. I nearly got _expelled_ for that one_._"

Alexandra was laughing so hard she thought she might fall down. She leaned against the counter and put her hand over her mouth, giggling uncontrollably. "Stop it! You'll make me break a plate!"

"Then I'll have to speak _Greek_!" he gasped. "Greek is hard. I can do it, of course, but takes careful study and the hooch'll kill ya. No, let me try Italian. Do you speak Italian?"

"Not well, or very much, I'm afraid," she answered, wiping tears from her eyes. She was never going to be bored with this man. "I spent a week in Tuscany, actually, but only learned how to say 'More pasta, please'."

"Okay. Let me see…_voglio baciare nuovamente con voi_."

She slowly wound down from her laughter, seeing his serious expression, and the way he was looking at her. She had caught one word, and it was enough to make her lick her lips nervously. "Wh-what?" His Italian accent was flawless, aside from his mastery of the language. He moved a little closer, and she forgot all about dishes and her pruny fingers. There was just _James_. In that perfectly tailored Armani suit, _sans _tie, the top buttons undone, he had looked absolutely delicious – like some normal girl's fantasy. She had caught her breath when she had seen him walk into the dining room, smelling his light cologne. Now, the jacket was gone and his sleeves were rolled up, showing his forearms and a scar just above his right wrist.

The spell was broken by her grandfather stomping into the kitchen. "The phone is ringing."

Her husband said a word in some Scandinavian tongue and turned away. He snatched the phone from her grandfather and barked "What?" into it as he left the kitchen.

"What sort of thing is this?" her grandfather asked. "Am I really to believe this is a real marriage? Because Nick informed me that you and James only met, what, four days ago?"

Alexandra sighed and closed her eyes. She should have known her grandfather would wheedle information out of her son. "Frankly, Grandfather, my marriage is none of your business at all. I can marry whomever I please, when I please."

"Not when you stand to inherit three billion pounds and my estate, and my bloody title to boot! Mark my words, young lady. If I decide to, I _can_ take certain measures against your _husband_ and those soldiers of fortune he travels with. I do have resources – I can do some digging, and then what will you have, missy? You'll have nothing whatsoever. If I like, I can even move to have you declared an unfit parent, over this _debacle_ of a marriage of yours. I did it to your father. What makes you think I can't do it to you?"

She drew in her breath and searched the huge kitchen for the comforting presence of her husband. But he was gone, talking to someone on the phone. She crossed her arms and tried to maintain her cool. If he had been any other man, she might have run screaming from the room, or at least slapped him. But instead, she was helpless, terrorized by him now as she had been as a child, cowed into obedience, to the point of even testifying against her own father in court.

James returned then, and immediately seemed to size up the situation. "Sir, I think it's past your bedtime."

"Now you listen to me…" Sir Henry started, turning to face Murdock, his apparent lameness gone and replaced by belligerence. But the pilot didn't look even vaguely intimidated.

"You'll listen to me, in my house. You can either quit the room or you can sleep on the front lawn, like any dog. Your choice."

For several seconds, the old man looked like he might strike James, but he finally seemed to realize that such an action could be harmful to his own health. He finally stalked out of the kitchen, but before he went out the door he turned back to look at Alexandra. "Remember what I told you, young lady."

* * *

Alexandra was unnervingly quiet as they prepared for bed. Murdock had moved some of his things into her room, after lunch, while the geezer took a nap on the couch, and so he brushed his teeth and did his best to not notice her bra and panties hanging on a hook by the shower, or her silk stockings on the floor. Apparently, she had not been trained by the Army, with regards to picking up her laundry. Either that, or she was trying to kill him.

She got a blanket out of the closet, and a cotton sheet, and he spread them out on the floor. He was thinking about just using his shoes as a pillow when one hit him in the head. "Oh! I'm sorry!" she gasped.

He shrugged and stretched out, punching the pillow into shape and easing off his bullet-scarred hip and his filleted shoulder. The carpet was soft, but not _that_ soft, and it took him a while to finally get only a little uncomfortable. She was in the same silk two-piece pajamas she had been wearing last night, and just as he was thinking about that, she climbed into her bed and glanced at him, and their eyes met. Her fingers were fiddling with the top button of the blouse, and he sat up sharply.

"Good night," she said, and turned off the bedside lamp, the room plunged into darkness. Murdock lay down again and stared at the ceiling, crossing his arms behind his head and thought about all the times he had slept on the floor. Hundreds of times, he finally realized. Jails. Army camps. Padded cells. _Mosul_, but then he hadn't slept a lot.

"Do you say bedtime prayers?" she asked him, jerking him out of his thoughts.

"Silently," he answered.

She was quiet for several minutes, and he thought she had fallen asleep when she suddenly spoke again.

"Do you think God has a sense of humor?"

"I suspect so. He invented it."

She laughed, softly. "Very true. Good night, James."

"_Buona notte_."


	12. Feelin' Good

TOUCHED

Chapter 12

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

**Song**: Feelin' Good, by Charlie Robison. No, I'm not making this a songfic. I don't generally like songfics (the rest of the story has to be exceptional for me to like them). Mainly because I don't know most of the songs, and have never heard of half the bands. That's what happens when you're stuck in the 1980's. Frankie says relax, and he means it!

Anyway. This is kind of a filler chapter, but stuff ended up happening that I didn't really plan and so it actually moves things along better than I really expected. Or least I hope it does. If I hunker down, I can probably get chapter thirteen written before bedtime, but I make no guarantees.

Thanks for all the great reviews, by the way. Publishing stories online is scary!

* * *

"Good morning, Beverly Hills!"

Alexandra's eyes popped open and she looked around, then smiled at the sunlight pouring into the room and listened as her husband launched into a random-neural-firing morning drive radio show.

"It's gonna be a bright, sunshiny day today here in Southern California, with temperatures in the upper eighties – in the Northeast, that's called a heat wave; in Llano, Texas it's called a friggin' cold front – with winds out of the south at about ten miles an hour. Good visibility, low haze, pollen count high, and no rain in the foreseeable future. In local news, Congressman Herbert Plumbpot denied being intoxicated at his ethics charges hearing, but could not explain his nudity. In national news, President Obama blamed the Bush Administration for his poor showing on the golf course yesterday, and would have given a lengthy, inspiring speech on the matter, but his staff couldn't find extension cords for his teleprompter, so he gave the press corps iPods with his best speeches preloaded on them instead. Also, a PETA spokeswoman was going to talk to us live from Anchorage about the vital importance of protecting the furry denizens of Alaska's National Wildlife Reserve, but unfortunately she was eaten by a bear. In entertainment news, grumpy Australian actor Russell Crowe drove his Stingray into a clot of French journalists, much to the delight of onlookers. And now, we cut to Lady Alexandra Murdock with _sports_!"

She rolled over and peered down at him from over the edge of the bed. He was still lying on the floor, arms folded behind his head. "I don't know anything about sports!" she informed him. He was on his feet immediately – so quickly, it was almost frightening – and stared at her, hands on his lean hips, an indignant expression on his face.

"Nothing? Nothing at all? What about racing? Car racing, motorcycle racing…I've even done some chopper racin', back in Iraq. Beat those Navy SEALS all to hell, lemme tell ya, and I was flyin' a medieval medivac to boot… How 'bout horse racing?"

"I usually only know who won the Derby each year. It's sort of a law that we British know _that_." She brushed her flyaway hair back with her hands and twisted it into a ponytail.

"Super Saver. Maria's Mon, out of Supercharger by A.P. Indy. A lucky Derby winner – he had Calvin Borell on his back, so how could he not've won?"

"I mean the _real_ Derby," she said haughtily, and snickered at his narrowed eyes. "Workforce won the real one!"

"Yeah, yeah…but y'all pronounce it wrong." He shrugged and went into the bathroom, smacking the door shut. She heard the shower start and got out of bed, straightening the sheets and quilt, and then stood up straight, horrified. She had left her underwear and stockings in there on the hook, drying, on full display!

As if intending to embarrass her further, James opened the door, a cloud of steam rolling into the room, and snapped her panties to her like a rubber band, twirled her bra like a lasso before throwing it to her, and finally dropped her stockings into the chair by the door. She only caught a brief glimpse of his utterly male _smirk_ before he shut the door again, and she heard it lock. Oh, like she would barge in there to have a good look!

Well…maybe. Try as she might, Alexandra couldn't deny being a little curious. But the bloody door was locked. She lifted her chin, hoping to at least _appear_ dignified, and went about straightening the room, picking up his blanket and sheet and folding them neatly, placing them on the bed. She snatched up his pillow and caught his scent – some sort of light, woodsy cologne that suited him perfectly. She stood there for several moments, holding his pillow and breathing in that comforting aroma. Simon had worn a heavy, overbearing scent she had never liked to begin with, and now whenever she smelled it, it made her stomach flip and her skin turn cold as ice.

Nick came bustling into the room, bright eyed and still flushed with sleep. "Where's James? He's not in his room, and that mean old man is downstairs!" He had still not decided on what to call his great-grandfather, and the best he'd managed, in his childish attempts at tackling long or complicated words, had been 'Fanner', and Alexandra was glad to see he had not fallen for Sir Henry's attempts at buying his affection. She touched her son's face and smiled at him, falling more in love with her baby every minute of the day – the nurse at the hospital in Solvang had told her that you don't just love your children – you fall in love with them, and she had been utterly correct. Until her son, she hadn't even really _liked_ children.

Still, Nick was so serious, and that worried her. He was so quick to take things far too hard, and to not snatch as much joy and crazy out of life as he could until he grew up and had to deal with the world. She looked at the shower door and supposed no one was better suited to teaching her son how to have fun than James Murdock. She could hear him in there, singing, and listened for a moment.

_Well I got strings that sound as pretty as the ocean  
Gonna sit up in the dunes  
And wonder what became of undying devotion  
I'll just play a tune _

_Freedom's comin' soon  
Play another tune_

_Play it to the moon…_

He kept changing pitch, testing his voice against the tile walls of the shower, going from bass to a nice tenor as he beat out the song. She smiled to herself, and shook her head.

"He's taking a shower, Peanut. Let's get you dressed – and I promise, no more silly suits, at least not until you start dating, God save us all. Your usual shorts and T-shirt today, all right?"

"'kay. James told me we'd fly the Boffeater again today."

"The _what_?"

"The Beaufighter!" James yelled from the bathroom. Alexandra glared at the door – he had apparently finished showering, and was probably shaving and trying to get his hair settled down.

"Come on, sweetie," she said, taking her son's hand and leading him to the door. "We'll have peanut butter and jam sandwiches…"

"Jelly!" James called from behind the door. "Ow…damn razor…bleeding…towel…where's a towel?"

She stuck her tongue out at the bathroom door.

"I saw that!" James shouted. "Ah, Band-Aids! I found the Band-Aids. Don't worry 'bout me. I'll just bleed to death here on the Spanish tiles!"

* * *

It took almost an hour's worth of grumbling, contradictory orders, a harried chauffeur, and Murdock's hip injury feeling like he'd taken that bullet yesterday for Collingwood to finally get loaded into the limousine and drive away. Once the old man was definitely by golly finally gone, Murdock limped back into the house, putting a curse on Sampsonite manufacturers and hoping Alexandra would make _him_ some PB&J sandwiches. He was delighted to see that she had indeed done just that, and sat down with Nick at the table by the pool, eating and watching the boy fiddle with the Beaufighter.

"My friend Face flew one of my airplanes – my toy airplanes – into a wall one day. Broke it all to smithereens."

"Were you mad?" Nick asked him, looking a little worried.

Murdock laughed. "Oh…a tad, I suppose." He had whipped out the Zippo and punished the conman by burning his hand, when he had been distracted by some skin flick on Cinemax. Boys will be boys, Hannibal had said, but he had told him not to pull that kind of thing again. Murdock looked at Nick, and knew he'd never dish out that kind of punishment for even the worst behavior by the kid. Maybe a smack or two on the butt for backtalk or outright defiance, if necessary, or no SpongeBob for a few days. He remembered the punishments he'd received, living with the Beasts. People wondered why he went nuts when he smelled ammonia, and if he were so inclined – which he never was – he would give them ample reasons as to why. "I kinda doubt he did it on purpose. But remember to be careful with that thing, okay? Have fun with it, though. It's yours."

Nick smiled at him – he smiled with his whole face, his dimples showing and his wide blue eyes shining happily. He looked a lot like his mother, except for the dimples and his fair hair. Murdock figured the kid's hair would darken, though. He had been blond as a child, too, and his mother had told him many times that he looked like his father.

Murdock had, among his meager possessions, a wedding photo of his parents. His father had been tall and lean, too, possessing strong muscles and a deep farm hand's tan, with serious brown eyes above a humorous mouth, while his mother was a slim, graceful, sylph-like creature of barely seventeen at the time, green-eyed with smooth, silky skin - eyes from her Irish immigrant grandfather (born dirt poor on the wild western Irish coast and eventually married to a rich Protestant landowner's daughter, just like in _Far and Away_) and skin inherited from her Cherokee maternal grandmother, who had been so beautiful that _six_ men had vied for her hand at the same time, according to family lore.

Once, he had showed Face the picture, guessing the conman would have some ribald comment, and he'd been right: he had looked down at it, grinned and said that Alice Quinn Murdock was a _hottie_.

He sat back in the chair and watched Nick fire up the Beaufighter. The plane hovered, wings waggling a little but otherwise admirably steady with a four-year old at the controls. Kid'll be a great flyer, he decided. He had good instincts, and didn't overdo things. Murdock knew he overdid stuff all the time – like this morning's live radio show in Alexandra's bedroom, but he had wanted to…what was the word? Bolster her? Buck her up, maybe? Get her ready to cope with the old man, who had been just as awful as he had expected him to be, shouting orders and just basically being a big, nasty jerk to everybody, particularly Alexandra. He had wanted to see her smile, and to get her day started off right, before she had to go downstairs and contend with Collingwood.

Ah, hell, if he had really wanted to get her day started off well, or least get his own day started on a good note, he would have joined her in the bed and played hide the cannoli. From the way she had been looked at him last night, as they were washing the dishes, it had seemed like the lights were green and all systems were pretty much _go_. And it had seemed that maybe her Italian wasn't quite as spotty as she claimed – she had appeared to understand at least some of what he'd said to her.

Italian was the perfect language for saying stuff like that – French was just too obvious, in his opinion, and a bit too frou-frou for his tastes anyway. He _had_ said the right things to a few women, over the years, in various languages, but usually those women hadn't spoken those languages and so had had no idea what he was saying and just thought he was loco. Colleen Garrity, however, had liked it when he spoke Russian to her, just like Jamie Lee Curtis in _A Fish Called Wanda_. He had sung all of 'Back in the USSR' for her one night, in Russian, while they were holed up in her flat in Mannheim. She had been indeed been a Naval officer, and thus her later, surprising visit to Iraq and the rekindling of their affair. Spoke several languages, too, but mainly Russian and German, and after three days of almost constant sex she had declared him to be quite the cunning linguist himself.

Face would have been _shocked_ to know that Murdock wasn't nearly as innocent as he often pretended to be, and that he had had some success with the opposite sex, though not a lot and he had always been extremely picky and very, _very_ discreet. It was just that Colleen had actually been the last woman he'd bedded, and that was _eight freaking years ago_. It had been best, lately, to just act like he was more or less uncertain about women – and to a major extent, he still was - and was too loony to take a stab at another relationship or fling or affair or love life of any kind. He remembered how nervous he had been when he had first met Alexandra. She had rattled him. Still rattled him. He wanted her to rattle him a little more, though. A lot more. _Shake my nerves and rattle my brain…break my will…but what a thrill…_

Sighing in frustration, he went back inside to find his deck of cards and returned to the table, setting up for solitaire and keeping an eye on Nick as he flew the plane around and around the edge of the pool, testing its speed. A couple of times, the little plane buzzed Murdock, but he didn't flinch. He lost four games in a row and finally gave up. He told Nick to take a break and go watch some TV for a bit, to improve his mind. The boy obeyed him, if a little reluctantly, and went inside. Murdock packed the toy plane in its box and trailed into the house. He fought the remote and beat the TV into submission, hunting down Nicktoons and finding _Penguins of Madagascar_. He sat down and watched King Julien Conga-Ga the chimps crazy, but one ear was tuned to the kitchen and Alexandra, who was muttering spells over pots and bowls of things that smelled fairly good as she whipped up lunch. But that didn't exactly mean it would taste good – she was English, after all.

* * *

"Who the bloody hell am I, Bridget Jones?" she asked, staring down at the pink soup.

She had used pink string to tie the leeks and celery together, not even thinking for a moment that the dye would bleed into the soup itself. And now, her leek and scallion soup was the color of cotton candy and she could hear her husband coming into the kitchen, obviously overcome with curiosity. Quickly, she turned around and put her back to the stove, ready to defend her position and her reputation for competency by way of another kick to the shin, if necessary. The o_ther_ shin.

"Hey, good-lookin', whatcha got cookin'?" he asked. He was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt with the iconic picture of Che Guevera…except that Che had a bullet hole between his eyes, with the words 'Coward and Murderer' written underneath the picture. He tried to peer over her head at the soup, but she gave him a determined little shove, hands on his chest, but that was as effective as a mouse trying to push Westminster Abbey down, and his muscles were rock hard – he might be thin, but he was _fit_. She looked up at him, her hands still on his chest, and contemplated his mouth again.

When he moved, she stood on her toes and met him halfway, gasping softly when his mouth made contact with hers. The kiss was soft and sweet and _perfect_, and it made her feel like she was melting and then turning to a frothy cream, in one place in particular. He didn't even have to apply pressure to get her to part her lips – she just surrendered and put her arms around his neck, kissing him back for all she was worth, curling his hair around her fingers and moaning when she felt his hand slip down to her behind, pulling her closer, against his middle. _Oh, God, that feels so good…_

"What are you doing?"

James whirled around and looked at Nick, who was standing in the doorway, staring at them. Alexandra, once she had managed to reboot her brain, peeked around his shoulder and ducked back behind him, glad James was rather wide. She turned around to look at her pink soup, which now matched the color of her cheeks.

"Uh…we were…uh…hey, wanna learn how to play…er…cards? Poker?" He ran his hand through his hair and she heard him mutter '_Poker_?'

"Yeah, but what were you doing?" Nick asked again, apparently not satisfied just yet. "I've seen people do that on TV. It's _icky_."

James cleared his throat. "Uh…well, you'll think differently about that in about ten or twelve years."

"Ew!"

Alexandra kept her back to them, and continuing stirring the soup and thinking, her heart pounding, her brain sending unfamiliar and alarming and _wonderful_ sensations to her entire body. She thought about his hands, and his mouth, and his hard body and his rough-cut, silky dark hair and how good that had felt. How good last night had felt. How she surely had a fever of about four hundred degrees. And how on earth was she ever going to live down pink soup? James left with Nick, and she only vaguely heard him telling him something that made her son laugh.

The oven timer dinged, and Alexandra got a mitt and pulled out her specialty – shepherd's pie. Only something was wrong. The oven didn't feel hot – usually, when she baked anything, opening the oven door nearly singed her eyebrows off. She looked up at the timer, brow furrowed in confusion. She opened the oven again, peeking inside, and nearly fainted – the damned thing wasn't on! She had forgotten to turn it on! She looked at the uncooked dish, back at the oven, then at her pink soup.

"Who wants _pizza_?" she yelled, clapping her hand to her forehead, Lucy Ricardo-style.

* * *

"You mean to tell me," Murdock said, slowly chewing on a breadstick from Domino's. "That you forgot to turn the oven on?"

"I'm afraid so," Alexandra muttered back. "And my leek soup also didn't work out quite…right."

"Mummy's not a very good cook," Nick offered helpfully. Off his mother's icy look, he only shrugged and continued, undaunted. "She burns stuff all the time, and one time she made cherries bumblebee…"

"Jubilee," Alexandra corrected miserably. Murdock had to pinch himself in the stomach to keep from bursting into laughter.

"…and we were findin' cherries everywhere for months. There was even cherries stuck on the ceiling," Nick informed Murdock in his usual grave, practically deadpan manner.

"Bright flash, really bad smell…kinda like a chemistry experiment gone horribly wrong. I apparently used too much alcohol."

"Well, cooking is actually a chemical process. Blending the right ingredients to produce the right flavors and textures. And being where I'm from, the process is also supposed to produce something comforting. I grew up on chicken fried steak and okra, and catfish, and so forth, plus Tex-Mex and barbecue. Typical Southern fare. I s'pect I can teach ya a thing or two."

Their eyes met across the table, and Murdock forgot all about that kind of chemistry. He was still reeling from that kiss in the kitchen – it had been like being hit by lightning, and in a pretty damned good way. Now, he was trying to figure out what to do with Nick so that he could get her upstairs for a discussion about the current state of their marriage, followed by negotiations, ending with détente, wherein both of them were naked and performing their own little chemistry experiment. Hm. Flavors and textures, indeed.

"I…I suppose you could," she said softly. Gotcha, he thought. She stood up, gathering up used paper plates and closing the empty pizza box. Alexandra had determinedly kept him out of the kitchen, but he sensed that she wasn't upset about the kiss, but about whatever had happened with her cooking. To hell with that – not everybody can cook, and she was damn good at a lot of other things, so what did it matter?

"Need any help?" he asked her hopefully. He glanced at Nick, who was slurping down his milk and oblivious to his parents' behavior toward each other. Thank God for that, he thought. He didn't need to know about that for a long time, and he would kill anybody that tried to tell him about it. Kids should be allowed to be _kids_.

"I'm fine," she answered, and went back to the kitchen with her load. Nick finished his milk and flopped on the couch, watching TV. Murdock drummed his fingers on the table, and finally snatched up the cups still on the table and went into the kitchen. She was back in front of the stove, standing there with her arms crossed, chewing on her lip and apparently defending a helpless soup pot. He raised his eyebrow and waited.

"Okay. Fine. It's pink. So when you see it, don't say 'It's pink', because I know it's pink and I don't need to hear that it's pink. All right?"

"What's pink?" he asked, confused. He knew _they_ were pink, or sometimes a dusky rose color. Glorious colors, either way.

She turned, picked up the pot, and held it out. He looked inside, and before he could stop, he looked at her and said, "It's pink."

"I know!" she snapped, and he had to turn away so she wouldn't see him laughing. But his shoulders were shaking so hard that it was hard to imagine she thought he was doing anything else.

After pulling himself back together, he turned back to face her, forcing himself into deadpan, Bob Newhart-style. "How did leek soup end up pink?"

"I used pink string," she wailed. "I didn't know it would…that it would _bleed_. I couldn't find any other string!"

"Ah, hell, Alexandra, it's not a big deal."

"It is a big deal. I took cooking courses in Switzerland, and after three days they told me to leave and to please for the love of God and all His angels, never come back again. I mean I didn't _aim_ to set the instructor's shirt on fire. It was an accident, and I should point out that all charges were dropped!" She gestured with her hands as she talked, and all he could think was that she was just about the cutest thing he'd ever come across.

"I suppose it's best that the main course didn't work out, either. It's the only thing I can cook – shepherd's pie."

Shepherd's pie? _That_ was the clincher. Shepherd's pie was why they didn't need _guns_ in England! Murdock started laughing. Laughing until his sides hurt and he had to sit down. He laughed for a long time, until finally he wound down and, after a few deep breaths, looked at her again. She looked more stricken than angry, though he doubted she enjoyed hearing him laugh at her. "Listen, you do everything else well, so why worry that you can't cook? I can't…hm…I can't…um…I'm a terrible sailor, and I can't tie knots to save my life – Face has to tie 'em, or our captives get away. I hate being on boats of any kind. I get seasick, and if anybody was dumb enough to put me at that…that wheely thing, I'd run right into a sandbar, or an iceberg."

"And your last name is Murdock?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"It means 'mariner'," she said, smiling. "I looked the name up one night. Out of curiosity. It might also mean 'sea warrior'."

"Oh. Really? Ironic!" He had never thought to look up his family name's meaning. "I hate the sea. Hate it. Hate all the stuff that can be in there. I don't even really like seafood much. I hate boiled shrimp, because I can't stand to eat anything that still has a face." He stood up. "And I'm also prone to ramble on endlessly, and I get manic and sometimes I get depressed to the point that I can't get out of bed, and sometimes I just go totally bonkers. Not being a good cook won't trump _that_."

"What causes it?" she asked him. "The…the…you know, bonkers?"

"Stuff. Smell of ammonia. Other scents. Other stimuli. Or if I forget to take my meds, of course."

Sex was now out of the question, he thought. He tried to convince himself that it was for the best. The earth and the stars had to be lined up perfectly, for that to happen, and they weren't. Not that one particular part of his anatomy agreed with that conclusion. It was practically screaming 'Party! Party! Party! and he knew another cold shower was on tonight's schedule. He would have to go back to his own room to sleep, too. No way would he get a wink of sleep on her floor, with her just a few feet away, looking like a cross between an angel and a temptress. A perfect combination, and one his imagination took off with at a fast gallop. He hadn't ever gone for the dark stuff, when it came to sex. He was, as far as he _knew_, pretty normal, but the ideas he was having now were not exactly prim and proper.

He was saved from his self-inflicted misery by the doorbell ringing. He had called the airport at eight-thirty, to check if Collingwood's flight had taken off, and had been informed that it had, with the old man aboard and terrorizing the flight attendants. So he knew it wouldn't be him again. Murdock sighed and went out to answer, but Nick beat him to the door and cheerfully greeted Face and Charisa Sosa.

Murdock shook his head. This was going to be a long day.


	13. Spree

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 13

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

**Song**: Take Me (George Jones & Tammy Wynette did a good job on it, but Dwight Yoakam and Kelly Willis beat it all to bits, in my opinion). No, this still isn't a songfic.

There's also a reference to Brad Paisley "Thank God I'm Still a Guy"

I actually had to Google to get Charissa's name spelled right. This chapter is another 'move the herd along' thing, but some good stuff happens and yes, B.A. and Hannibal are still alive. What, you thought I had killed them off? Shame on you!

* * *

Alexandra stopped at the kitchen door and was startled to see James hugging a very pretty woman, while Face was squatting down and talking with Nick. She stopped in her tracks, not at all pleased to see her husband anywhere near another woman, and finally cleared her throat, knowing full well she looked like a bitch ready to take on all rivals over her favorite bone.

"Oh," Face stood up, grinning at her in that shark-like way of his. James released the woman, who punched him on the shoulder and started laughing when she saw his Che Guevera-with-a-bullet-to-the-skull T-shirt. Was this the infamous Colleen McGillivary or whatever her name was, Alexandra wondered. If so, she wasn't going to remain in this house for long! She stalked into the room, her eyes narrowed.

"Hey, Alexandra, this is…"

The woman smiled at Alexandra, but her smiled faded when she saw the look on her face. She looked at James, who looked kind of startled and was studying Alexandra, obviously confused by his wife's reaction.

"Charissa Sosa," she said, holding out her hand. "Nice to meet you at last. I've heard a lot about you."

Alexandra's anger immediately vanished, replaced by mortification. "Oh. Oh. Right! Right…you're, uh…"

"My girlfriend," Face said with one of his patented smug grins. Charissa gave him a _look_ that indicated that she was also not impressed by sharks. James's nervous expression vanished and he relaxed.

"Actually, I'm from the Department of Defense, and I've known HM…er, James…for several years now." She gave James a warm smile. "When I heard he was married and living in Beverly Hills, I knew I had to meet you. Figured you'd have to be one hellava woman to snare a member of the legendary _A-Team_."

"I am a hellava woman," Alexandra agreed, looking at James. HM? What was HM supposed to stand for? Charissa looked amused.

"Listen, I'm taking Charissa here on a shopping spree on Rodeo Drive, and I was wondering if y'all would like to come along." He looked down at Nick, and frowned. Alexandra knew what he was thinking – what four-year would enjoy an outing with a pair of hens and two bored-silly guys?

"Why are you limping?" Face asked James.

"I cut my toe shaving."

"Ah. Of course."

"Rodeo Drive?" Alexandra asked Charissa, who nodded, smiling.

"I've never been there before. Always felt like I might be arrested for lack of accessories," James said. "Plus, I don't have a tiny dog to carry in a bag. Apparently, those are required."

"How did you cut your toe shaving?" Charissa asked James, who started to answer her but was interrupted by Face.

"Well, that's part of the plan, actually – getting you some new duds, Murdock."

"I dropped the razor and it cut my toe. Liked to've bled to death. And what's this about new duds?"

Nick sat down on the floor and began playing with Tinkle, who had joined the party to look for new legs to scar, having given up on following this four-way conversation. Alexandra felt like she was in the middle of an improv skit, but it was becoming too much to cope with. She waved her hands, cutting everybody off. "Please! We're all going to…we're going _shopping_?'

"Yeah. You are a girl, right? I mean, you like to shop? It's in your DNA, from what I understand. She does like to shop, right, Murdock?" Face asked, turning to look at James. It still drove Alexandra a little crazy that they all kept calling him by his surname, instead of his Christian name. Maybe she would be the only one who did.

Murdock made a 'How would I know?' gesture with his hands and shrugged.

"I…well, I haven't been _shopping_ shopping in several years," Alexandra finally answered. "Not any serious shopping, I mean. Basic 'must be clothed in public or risk arrest for public indecency' type of shopping, and why are you all looking at me like that? I'm not really much a clotheshorse."

Charissa gave her a critical once-over, but Alexandra couldn't figure out if the other woman agreed with her or not. She had never been terribly self-conscious about her clothes, even back in her younger, Knightsbridge and Kensington slumming days. Working at the hotel in Hong Kong had required her to buy high-quality dress suits and executive-type clothes, but having left, she hadn't worn them at all since.

"Neither am I," James said firmly, still staring intently at Alexandra, who found herself blushing, remembering that kiss from earlier today, and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing: Why don't these bloody people just leave? "And I ain't lettin' some twirlin' little fairy pat my package again, Faceman. No way. All he needed was a pink parasol and the soundtrack to _Gigi_ to make the picture complete. I don't care if somebody swings that way, but he can keep his paws off my person, thank you."

Face looked like he might die from containing his laughter. "Oh, Je..ez…" He glanced down at Nick, who as still playing with the kitten. "I'll never forget the look on that guy's face when you threatened to…" He looked at Nick again and edited his language. "To do what you…er…said you'd do to him if he touched you again. But the suit still looked good. You remember that suit, Alexandra? No doubt it's _your_ favorite!"

She smiled in agreement, and caught James blushing. Face snickered. Charissa rolled her eyes. "Face is under the impression that since you two are going to England next week, you both should dress properly for mingling with the rich, royal and famous – you know, the Queen's Garden Party, Ascot, attending balls with the _ton_, riding in Rotten Row, being knighted, laying siege to castles, and so forth."

"Oh, yes, the Queen's Garden Party is a fixture I never miss, James," Alexandra said, putting on her best Hyacinth Bucket posh accent. "Strawberries and cream, and then of course, being presented at Court, wearing ostrich plumes in my hair. Ascot means enormous hats. I've done Ascot. Poked the Marquess of Bute in the butt with my umbrella."

"Well, if I'm laying siege to anything, I'll need some armor and chain mail." He looked at Face, and they both said, in stereo, "Have fun stormin' the castle!" Off everyone's quizzical looks, Face explained. "From _The Princess Bride_."

"Anyway, I think something from Chanel is in order," Charisa said, rolling her eyes affectionately at Face.

"Ascot is over, alas," Alexandra informed them. "Oh dear, James, who won the Gold Cup?"

"Princess Anne? Oh wait, an actual horse, right? Uh…" He looked at the ceiling, either praying for patience or searching his memory. "I honestly haven't a clue."

"Some more Armani for HM, of course, and maybe some Hugo Boss, because frankly, I think he'd look _hot_ in Hugo," Charissa nodded. That made everyone in the room except Nick, who had resumed his position on the couch to watch _Fanboy and ChumChum_, stare at her. "What? He would. You would, Murdock. Don't deny it. All these years I've known you, you've been living a double life as a male model, haven't you?"

There it was again – he looked bewildered. Alexandra smiled. His self-confidence may have grown since the day before yesterday, but his shyness would likely never go away, and frankly, she liked him that way.

* * *

Face called B.A. to see if he'd be willing to babysit Nick, and once the Sergeant agreed to keep the boy for the rest of the day, Alexandra and Charissa went upstairs, so that Charissa could get an idea of Alexandra's taste in clothes. She was also under orders to sound her out a little, because Face had expressed considerable concern about Murdock's marriage to a total stranger and how evasive he kept being about it.

Sosa found the whole situation amusing. Watching the Captain and Alexandra together, she knew that the couple seemed to kind of work, in a sort of off-kilter and indefinable way. They connected, and that was good. The air wasn't altogether clear between them yet, but that would happen soon enough, and besides, it really wasn't Face's business who Murdock married. But…she had to admit, it was sweet of Temp to be so worried about his friend. But then, Temp also tended to be overprotective and fussy about Murdock, and more than once, she had seen the pilot look rather annoyed about it.

She and Alexandra plundered her closet, finding a suitable 'Strutting Rodeo Drive' outfit of black miniskirt and white silk top with tiny black polkadots, with black pumps. "Got any pearls?" Sosa asked.

"No, I'm afraid not. Not real ones, anyway. I sold everything my first husband gave me, and my best jewelry is back home in England." Her back was to Charissa, as she checked herself out in the full-length cheval mirror, smoothing the skirt. "I have a faux pearl necklace in the jewelry box." Sosa dug in the box and extracted the necklace, and watched Alexandra for a moment, curious. She had class, that was for sure, but she was also kind of kooky. She had a Laura Petrie from _The Dick Van Dyke Show_ goofy-sweetness and expressiveness about her that more than suited Murdock's own style. In the outfit, Alexandra looked a lot like Holly Golightly, and the look _worked_. "I'm afraid I don't have an ocelot."

Charissa laughed. "They're not allowed on Rodeo – they might eat a Chihuahua. The pearls look fairly real. Good enough. Oh, and here's some matching earrings. Gotta look the part, or they'll treat you like shi-…er, crap. I've been there a coupla times. Not shopping – just looking in the windows and wishing I had that much cash. Don't tell Face, but I'm not going to spend a nickel, but I highly suggest you do…and let Face pay for it! We're gonna hit Chanel, and all the really top-brand places, and maybe even Tiffany and Cartier, while Face drags Murdock around to the men's stores. He thinks Murdock needs another haircut, too, and a manicure, which I suspect will just about freak the poor guy out. So…spend, baby, spend. I've got Face's credit card!" She held the piece of plastic up, and Alexandra giggled nervously.

"I suspect this entire excursion will drive poor James crazy…er…unsettle him considerably. He doesn't like crowds, and he hates having people stare at him."

Charisa smiled. "Oh?" Alexandra was right about that. Murdock couldn't stand being confined, and she had seen him come close to a meltdown once at a mall at Christmastime. It had just gotten to be too much – the packed, rushing crowds, the heat, the cloying Christmas music, the screaming kids, the terrifying Santa Claus…it would make nearly anybody crack, and with Murdock's fragility at the time, she and Face had known taking him shopping with them had been a huge mistake, and they had barely managed to get him outside into the fresh air in time.

"Well…from what I've seen so far." Alexandra twisted her hair up into an elegant knot and clipped it in place. Charissa felt a twinge of envy, but it passed, and she decided that she rather liked this woman. She was _quality_, without being a snob.

"Yeah, and he's damn sexy, isn't he?" Sosa sat back in the chair and smiled, ready for the reaction she knew was coming.

Alexandra whipped around and stared at Charissa, who held her hands up, laughing. "Don't worry. I'm not saying he's my type. He's not, and besides, I'm kinda taken. But I'm taken, not _blind_. All that shy sweetness, and his awkwardness, and that occasional crazy…yeah, he's sexy all right, and smarter than anyone I've ever met…and oh, God, you should see him in uniform. He carries that look twice as well. But I meant what I said: he looks _good_ in Armani. I mean, seriously – Face made me come along when he took Murdock to the tailor, to get that suit fitted, and…ooh la la…when he walked out of that fitting room, I admit it – my knees got a little _weak_. And the whole time, he was blushing and wouldn't look anybody in the eye – it was so adorable. Though, sometimes, I think some of that's an act. A lot of his crazy is an act, after all. He's no player, but he's not lily-white either. There have been a few ladies that came and went along the way."

"Did you…er…know any of his…uh…past…girlfriends?"

Sosa almost laughed. She was jealous, but trying to casual and flippant, as if she was just making idle conversation. This was just so cool. It was like spying for "Maxim" magazine or something. "No. I only heard a rumor or two, but never saw him with anyone." Charisa shrugged. "What have you heard?"

"Oh, well, you know…you hear men talk sometimes. I swear, they gossip more than us!"

Charissa giggled. "Oh, I know. Sometimes, I come across them all sitting at the table, talking about women and sex, and God only knows what else, and I think I should just get them a cheesecake and some Oreos and leave to do each other's hair."

* * *

B.A. was actually kind of happy to take the kid on for the day – he was at loose ends, and Hannibal was out of town doing something he hadn't wanted to talk about. He knew they would likely be out pretty late, so he was already setting up some games and toys for Nick to play with when they arrived at his apartment. With his payoff from Collingwood, Baracus had bought a comfortable place in West Hollywood, where he wasn't too far from Hannibal or Peck. Since Murdock's marriage, however, he was pretty far from that crazy fool, and he was curious to have a look at the layout of the land, now that so much had changed.

Alexandra made him flush with embarrassment when she gave him a charming smile and asked him how he was doing. B.A. decided then and there that the layout looked pretty good from where he was standing. That fool also looked like he was faring well enough, though he did look a little shellshocked. "M'fine," he finally muttered, and turned his attention to Nick, who always seemed slightly awed by B.A.'s size. "Hey, little man. How's it shakin'?"

Nick took his hand with a grave "Good afternoon", which seemed out of place from a four-year old. B.A. gave Alexandra a searching look, and she sighed.

"Nick, sweetie, have _fun_ – that's an order. Mr Baracus has lots of toys and games…and I sincerely hope he has hidden the firearms and the grenades…and you can watch a movie, too. Be good for me, okay?"

"I will, Mummy." He looked a little uneasy, being separated from his mother for probably the first time since coming back to the States, but he didn't go to hug her goodbye, as she seemed to expect. Instead, he tugged on Murdock's pants-leg until he crouched down, and hugged him. Face and B.A. exchanged looks, wondering about _that_ one. Then again, kids did like Murdock. He had a knack for talking to them like they were people, and never thought to pick on them like a lot of adults did. B.A. had to give the crazy fool credit – he was good with kids.

"Mind Mr Baracus," Murdock said, his mouth twitching a little, and whispered something in the kid's ear that made him giggle.

"Have you heard from Hannibal lately?" Face asked B.A., as Nick was introduced to the pile of board games in the living room and urged to select one. Murdock suggested _Chutes and Ladders_.

"I think he's upstate. Visiting a friend, he said. I think the friend might actually be female, but he wouldn't give me no details."

Face snickered. Hannibal was like that – he'd just vanish for a while and return just as suddenly, looking refreshed and relaxed. Yeah, he definitely had a woman somewhere. "Good for him."

"What do you think about Mrs Crazy Fool in there?" B.A. asked him seriously.

"I haven't quite figured it out yet. Seems to be working, though – they get along, and he really seems…calm. A little shaken, but calm anyway. I keep tryin' to figure out how to ask him if they're knockin' boots yet, but I also suspect that he'd burn my hand with a Zippo again if I did. There's a new wrinkle in the plan, too, and I'll tell you about it later. I'm not quite as worried as I was before, though. Still kind of _concerned_, but I'm not pacing the floor at night."

They left, and B.A. settled in at the coffee table, and was soundly beaten at the children's boardgame. Huh. He gave the kid a careful look, and figured some of Murdock was rubbing off on him. That pilot might be crazy, but he was canny, and the kid was a quick study, even if he did seem to be awfully serious for his age. It was going to be an interesting day.

* * *

Rodeo Drive wasn't extremely busy, as it was dusk and a Thursday. The mid-August bright blue of the sky was fading to a kind of pearl grey and the sun was setting as Face pulled onto the world-famous street and drove slowly through, taking in the scenery. Charissa, sitting with him in the front seat, put her hand on his knee in a casual, completely natural way, and Murdock, seated in the back with Alexandra, saw the gesture. That relaxed, uncomplicated companionship that Face and Sosa shared made him nervous. He glanced at Alexandra and tugged uneasily at the tie Face had forced him to wear.

He was decked out in the black Armani he'd worn back in Hong Kong, with a crisp white shirt and a greenish tie that Sosa declared brought out his eyes, much to his embarrassment. Face had informed him, once he was inside the car and the doors and windows were childproof-locked, that one of the first things he would be doing was getting a professional haircut and a manicure. Only Alexandra's encouraging smile had kept him from breaking a window and climbing out to run away screaming. To hell with shopping. Let the hens go. He'd go back to the mansion and drink beer by the pool.

That, however, wasn't going to happen. He was stuck, and he was scared. He didn't want strangers touching him, and he didn't want people looking at him, and he didn't want cufflinks and a tuxedo (another of Face's suggestions) or new shoes. He wanted to be alone...with his wife. He looked at Alexandra again, taking in the miniskirt that revealed her gorgeous legs, and her silk top. She was comfortable in this world, and suddenly he realized that his world – mental hospitals and rusted choppers and Hawaiian shirts – would never blend with hers. That realization depressed him immensely, and he looked out the window, covering his misery.

Face caught his expression in the rearview mirror, and frowned. Murdock tried his best to look a little more lifelike, but Peck wasn't stupid – he had seen it, and was clearly concerned. Great, another peptalk from the Cathouse Hero, Murdock thought gloomily. They finally found a parking spot and he went around to help Alexandra out, a gesture that Sosa found impressive and she gave Face a glare – the conman had started looking around for the first place they should go.

"Okay," he said. "Murdock and I are gonna go to the Armani store first, then it'll be Hugo Boss and Cartier for some good cufflinks, and maybe a decent watch."

Murdock flinched, looking down at the watch on his wrist. It was his father's watch, for God's sake. "What's wrong with this one?" he asked. "I've had it my whole life!"

"Nothing's _wrong_ with it, Murdock. It's just…outta style, and in England, you need to look _stylish_."

"I thought I just needed to look like a well-dressed socialist," Murdock snapped back in irritation. Face laughed and turned him toward Armani.

"We'll meet you ladies back here at…seven? Good. Have a good time."

Alexandra and Charissa walked away in the opposite direction, and Murdock looked back at his wife's retreating figure, drawing in his breath. He could at least try, he thought. For her sake, so he wouldn't completely embarrass her among her friends and family. He'd be on his best behavior, and dress accordingly. Having made this decision, he resolutely followed Face across the street and into the shop.

* * *

Lucia and Donatella were impressed with the tall, good-looking guy with flashing blue eyes, but both women were charmed by the lanky one, who got flustered as they showed him innumerable dress shirts and pants. They discussed his physique in Italian as they examined him, walking around him as they made eyeball measurements. His wide shoulders were perfect for Armani, they agreed, and his posture was excellent.

"About six feet, four inches, _si_?" Donatella asked.

"_Si_," he replied. "_Nessuno giallo, pregare. Non mi piace giallo_."

Lucia's eyebrows went up, and she looked at Donatella, who suddenly clapped her hands, making Mr Murdock jump. "_Paolo! Abbiamo un signore chi bisogno verso essere misura_."

* * *

"Jesus, Murdock, what are they saying?" Face asked him, listening as Paolo and the two salesgirls jabbered away in Italian.

"I said I didn't like yellow, and now Paolo is asking when he gets to pat my package, I suspect," Murdock answered wearily. He wanted to sit down. The Italian tailor kept looking at him and smiling. "Paolo also just told Lucia that she is a bitch, and that Donatella's breasts sag like deflated balloons. Paolo, meanwhile, looks like a Danny Thomas' demented nephew and is kind of a douchebag."

Lucia looked livid, her hard blue eyes blazing with rage. Donatella said something to Paolo, who huffed, his face turning red.

"Donatello has now informed Paolo that his sex change operation might not be necessary after all, what with what she has in mind with the…I didn't get that word…scissors? Right. Tailor's scissors, maybe." Murdock looked at himself in the mirror, and decided the red tie wasn't really all that bad.

"Oh. Good. I don't think yellow looks good on you, either. Makes you look washed out. Hey, gimme a phrase or two, would ya? I wanna try some out on the girls, while I'm waiting."

"Er…_Ho un contagioso pelle condizione_."

Face sounded that one out and nodded. "Okay. Somethin' else?"

"_Pazzia funzionamenti in mio famiglia. Io urinario en letto_."

"Good, good…that sounds kinda cool. One more, for effect."

"_Io diperarsi dopo sesso, e mio pene ÿ tutto piccolo. Io fu anche precedente un donna._"

"Yeah. I think the blonde one likes me." Face grinned across the room at the two salesgirls, who smiled back as Paolo approached Murdock again, armed with chalk and measuring tape, which caused Murdock to back away, eyeing the little man warily. "All right, bud. You're up again. C'mon, it'll be fine."

"_Sei tale un recriminazione_."

"Eh?"

"Never mind. You wouldn't understand."

* * *

For the next hour and a half, he was forced to try on about a dozen different suits. Face judged that eight of them looked fine – two were black, two were navy blue, two were charcoal grey, one was brown, and the other was a kind of slate color. Several ties were added to the stack. Murdock refused to look at Armani underwear at all, declaring that Hanes and Fruit of the Loom were both just fine as far as he was concerned, and pretty cheap at Wal-Mart to boot.

Paolo didn't try anything, at least. He heard the man's mutterings, though, and only had to give him a warning look once. Otherwise, it wasn't quite as awful as he had thought it would be. Paolo had measured each suit carefully, using a piece of chalk to define how everything should be altered. The suits would be ready right before he and Alexandra left for London, and would be delivered to the mansion.

Finally allowed to sit down in the fitting room, Murdock heard a scuffle on the other side of the wall, and poked his head out from the curtain and saw Face reeling as Donatella raised her hand to slap him again. "This idiot just called me a twit…right after he told me he has a small penis, a skin condition, and that he wets the bed…and that he used to be a woman! Then he has the nerve to call _me_ a twit!" she yelled. "You disgusting pervert!" Murdock pulled his head back into the sitting room, and went back to his seat. Sure enough, Face came bounding into the room, looking like mayhem, with a red handprint on his face.

"You did it to me again!" he shouted. "This is just like that French fashion model – you had me tell her that my hovercraft was full of eels and that I was really into snuff porn."

"Well, frankly, Facey, you should a – be glad I got you out of two-timin' Charissa, because she'd shoot your kneecaps off – and b – you really ought to have learned by now to not ask me for useful foreign phrases. How many times have I done that to you? Twenty? Thirty?"

Face ran his hand through his hair. "All right. Fine. Come on. On to your haircut and manicure."

"Are you gonna get your womancure?" he asked as they left the store, Donnatella and Lucia glaring at Face but smiling warmly at Murdock. "Those hormones you have to take, after that surgery, do make you kinda peaked sometimes, and really very emotional…"

"Will you just come on?" Face barked, and Murdock followed him, hands stuffed in his pockets, trailing reluctantly back into the darkening thoroughfare. Two willowy, Chanel-clad blondes looked him over, and smiled. One of them looked a lot like some well-known actress, but he couldn't place her.

"Hi," she said. Murdock blushed and continued on after Face.

* * *

_"Deep spray-on tans, and creamy lotiony hands…you can't grip a tackle box…_"

Murdock sang under his breath, looking down at his hands. That tiny woman in the salon had cut his cuticles and filed down his nails and then buffed them until they were almost too shiny for comfort. Face had tried to talk him into a facial, too, but had moved pretty fast for a recent sex-change patient when Murdock took a threatening step toward him. Now, they were leaning against the hood of the 'vette, waiting for their respective women.

Finally, they both appeared, or at least it looked like them. They were basically just shopping bags and boxes with feet, shuffling toward them. Murdock immediately went over to assist, taking as many as he could from Alexandra and giving Face a look that told him to move his ass. Peck snatched up boxes and bags from Charissa, and they proceeded to grapple with fitting them all into the 'vette's trunk, and finally had to stuff several bags into the back seat, underfoot.

"Well, if it isn't James Bond himself," Charissa laughed when she saw Murdock's new do. He scratched the back of his neck, his short haircut still making him feel weird and kind of itchy. "How many suits did you end up having to get?"

"Eight," Murdock muttered. "Eight hundred bucks a pop, too, plus the ties. Then it was a haircut and manicure and a bunch of shoes, and then I had to buy a gold watch and a bunch of cufflinks that I can't figure out how to operate, and a _tuxedo_ that makes me look like a friggin' maitre'd. But I think I'll give each shoe his own name."

"Good idea," Charissa laughed. "And did you do the 'hovercraft is full of eels' trick to Face again? Or were you just the one who slapped him this time?"

"Yup. An Italian woman slapped him good'n hard."

"Good!"

He looked at Alexandra, who was flexing her hands and looked tired, but she also looked pretty pleased. "Bought up Dolce and Gabanna?"

"And Versace and Chanel!" she laughed. "I've never shopped 'til I dropped before, but I'm about to. Where are we going for supper?" she asked Face.

"Well, I was thinkin' we'd go to a place that has food and dancing. Good food and dancing, that is. The two don't always go hand-in-hand, but I heard about a place in West Hollywood where you might see Jack Nicholson sometimes. How 'bout it?"

"Fine with me," Murdock answered. "Can I _please_ take this tie off?"

* * *

The restaurant was large and not overpacked, but to Alexandra it seemed dreadfully overpriced. There was indeed a large dance floor in the middle of the restaurant, lit with Japanese lanterns and Christmas lights, and several couples were moving to the music. It was apparently disco night, because the Bee Gees were wailing from the subwoofers. A band was setting up, and as the four took their seats, they were informed that their meals would be free if they got up and performed a song and got good reviews (or actually enthusiastic applause).

"Well, Murdock, you'll have to sing something, won't you?" Face grinned, peering at the menu. Alexandra studied her husband and remembered his singing in the shower that morning.

She had missed him as she shopped, even though she and Charissa had come to enjoy each other's company. She hadn't had much time to form friendships with other women, in the past four years. Still, she had suspected that James would be an excellent judge of the outfits she had tried on, though their side trip to Victoria's Secret had made her expressly glad that he had _not_ been present. He would have been surprised to see the stuff she had tried on, and what she had finally selected.

"A bottle of water for eleven dollars," James said. "_Eleven dollars_? What's the bottle made of? Plutonium?"

"Well, if you get up and sing, it'll be free," Face pointed out. "Charissa and I are just gonna dance." He winked at his girlfriend, who sighed.

"But my feet are tired!" she whined. "Tell him, Alexandra. Your feet hurt, too, don't they?"

But Alexandra barely heard her. She was looking at James as he perused the menu, his eyes narrowing a little as he read the descriptions of the dishes and measured the prices in proportion. In the soft lighting of the restaurant, he looked particularly handsome – it did wonderful things for his cheekbones, and his eyebrows, and as he frowned she thought about the kiss they had shared in the kitchen that afternoon. Plus, he had removed his tie and undone the top two buttons of his white dress shirt. The black and white of the suit had a mouth-watering effect, with his coloring and the way he carried himself.

Charissa was right. James was _sexy_. Best thing about it, of course, was that he had no clue about it.

"Well, if I'm gonna sing for my supper," James declared, slapping the menu closed. "I'm gonna order something expensive. Are you gonna sing, Alexandra?"

"Oh, heavens no," she laughed nervously, jerked out of her thoughts, and looked up to see Face and Charissa looking at her funny, the lieutenant smirking. "I told you I can't sing."

"Aw, c'mon. We do a duet and get enough applause, we can both eat for free."

"I've never done a duet. And if I did, the person I tried to sing with would try to strangle me halfway through the song. I will opt out, thank you."

James finally shrugged. "What should I sing?"

* * *

Face thought it over carefully, as they ate their meals. He informed the waiter that his friend James would be performing something, and then asked what happened if he got the _most_ applause. The waiter answered that the winner (rated by applause volume) of the singing competition was rewarded with free meals for himself and his guests that night. Face found this idea extremely agreeable – Murdock was a good singer, and he wasn't afraid to take risks. In fact, in many cases, Murdock had no inhibitions at all. Face assessed the situation carefully – the supper crowd was small, and it didn't look like many people would be taking a stab at it.

Once dessert was eaten – a big, expensive banana split for each of them, Face was that confident in Murdock as a meal ticket – he grabbed his friend and dragged him over to the stage door, where they were admitted by a bouncer and shown to a tiny room. The pilot looked bored as Face flipped through the list of songs the restaurant preferred their customers try to tackle, and shook his head at each one. "No, I am not singing 'My Way' or 'Mack the Knife'. Who do I look like? Bobby Darin? I'll pick something. Go siddown already, would ya?"

* * *

"What do you mean, he's gonna just _pick_ something?" Charissa asked Face, who sat down beside her and tried to look calm. "That could mean…_anything_. He could do Weird Al Yankovic or something – 'Smells Like Nirvana'…though I admit, when he did 'Amish Paradise' at that wedding reception, I nearly peed my panties, I laughed so hard."

"I think he'll do just fine," Alexandra said, with a gentle implacability that made Face and Charissa look at her and shut their mouths. But Face's knee was bouncing under the table, and his jaw hurt from grinding his teeth. He looked at the stage, and a few moments later the emcee came out, brandishing a microphone and telling the band – which had been playing 'Stardust' – to cut it out. He whispered something to the bass player, who looked bewildered for a moment before finally nodding and consulting the drummer, who got up and went in search of something. He returned a few moments later with a violin, and began testing it.

"Oh, sweet baby Jesus," Face said softly. He looked at Alexandra, who didn't look nervous at all.

* * *

"Well, without further ado…we start the Sing for Your Supper Competition. A version of _American Idol_, so to speak, except your reward is a free dinner if you get good applause; free meals for you and your friends if you win the contest, and if you get boos, you have to stay and wash the dishes," the emcee – a short, wiry man who looked disturbingly like Robert Blake – informed the diners and remaining dancers on the floor. "Our first competitor this evening is one Captain James Murdock, formerly of the United States Army Rangers…and…" He peered at the card. "The best damn pilot alive today…?"

Murdock stepped out from behind the curtain, glanced at the bass player, accepted the mike from the emcee, and looked out at the crowd. There were probably fifty or so people – including waitstaff – in the restaurant, and his eyes scanned the room until he spotted Face and Charissa…and Alexandra.

_Take me_

_Take me to your darkest room_

_Close every window, and bolt every door_

_The very first moment_

_I saw your smile_

_I'd be in darkness no more._

_Take me to your most barren desert_

_A thousand miles from the nearest sea_

_The very moment that I saw your smile_

_It would be like heaven to me_

_There's not any mountain too rugged to climb_

_No desert too barren to cross_

_Darlin', if you would just show a sign of love_

_I could bear any loss_

_Take me to Siberia_

_And the coldest weather of the wintertime_

_It would be just like spring in California_

_As long as I knew your were mine_

_Yes, it would be just like spring in California_

_As long as I knew your were mine_

_Take me_

_Take me_

The crowd applauded, very loudly, and Murdock only nodded and said a polite "Thank you" before leaving the stage. He saw no reason to rub such an easy victory in.

* * *

The music had picked up considerably as the night went on. James, flush with triumph, sat at the table with Alexandra, who was picking at the remains of her free banana split, and watched Face and Charissa dance. They had started out with the infamous death dance from _Pulp Fiction_, and things had gone downhill from there.

"What are they doing now?" she asked him, having to shout over the noise. She had turned her back to the dance floor by now, unable to bear it any more. Besides, watching the dancing made her head start whirling. She had been tossing the champagne back with enthusiasm, suddenly wanting to rid herself of a few of her own inhibitions. But she still couldn't watch _that_. It was almost pornographic.

"They're dirty dancing. Wow…is that a legal move?"

She finally made herself look, and burst into laughter. It was just too comical – Face and Charissa were practically mating like weasels on the dance floor, their bodies as close together as humanly possible without actually changing into each other's clothes. "Oh, my. That's just awful."

"Tell me about it. I've seen him do that before, too. He gets all Patrick Swayze on a woman and starts sayin' weird stuff like 'Nobody puts baby in a corner' and next thing I know, I'm sittin' in the corner while he's…well, let's just say there's a bar in Tallahassee we can never go to again, and leave it at that."

"Don't you dance?" she asked him, swishing the champagne in her glass before taking another sip. For a second, there were _two_ Jameses, sitting across from her, and the thought had its merits. Hm…

"I only do rain dances," he informed her with not inconsiderable dignity. "'Course, once I did it wrong and ended up with kitchen appliances all over the place. What a mess, and those Comanches were _not_ happy. Had to go back and re-read that instruction manual."

"You do sing…and quite well. Did you take lessons?"

"Me? No. I went to church when I was a kid: accapella congregational singin' – the best kind, in my opinion. God can't hear ya singin' over the racket musical instruments make. I learned how to read music from the _Sacred Selections_ songbooks." He laughed. "Shaped notes, y'know? I can still tap out a tune on a piano, when required. I had an ear for music from the get-go. Face isn't too bad at the piano, either, though I suspect his piano lessons started at the piano and ended up _on_ the piano, if you know what I mean. His piano teacher was kind of a looker. Or did he say she was a _hooker…_?"

"No danshing lessons?" She took another sip from her champagne glass. The world was swaying gently, as if she were on a yacht on a choppy sea. The sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant, but she wondered how poor James would handle it, seeing as how he hated sailing. "I took ballet, until I got too tall. Then I took ballroom dancing leshons, and tap. I can't shing or carry a tune, but I do have ver-…very good rhythm." She hiccupped and giggled, the bubbles tickling her nose.

"Yeah, I had to take dancing lessons. At school. Mr Covington, an English teacher who I sincerely hope was being paid several hundred thousand dollars to do it, had to corral twenty-eight twelve-year old girls and boys into the school gym for an hour every Saturday afternoon and try to teach us to dance. We learned the basic box step, the Foxtrot, and because Mr Covington wanted to be a real hep cat and teach us something we could use to really liven up wedding receptions, the Lindy Hop. It was pretty funny, really – we'd all line up, enemy teams on each side of the free-throw line, and stretch our arms out as far as we could, place one hand on a shoulder, use the other hand to grip a clammy hand, and then he'd say _ONE-_two-three-four! And the line would lurch to the right, like a drunk caterpillar."

"So who did you take to the prom?" she asked.

"Melissa Carpenter."

"Wash…_was_ she your…your firsht…first?"

"No." James sat back in his chair, his expression changing from amused to something else she couldn't place in her drunken state, but it wasn't very _pleasant_. "That was later. Listen, are you okay? You look kinda wobbly."

"I'm goin' wobbly!" she said with a giggle. "Let'sh dance. We'll do the Hindy Lop! Oops…Lindy Hop!"

"I don't dance…not in public."

She huffed. "Please? Please dance wif…with me." She rubbed her nose and tossed back the rest of her champagne, but James took the glass from her and set it at his own elbow, out of her reach.

"Enough of the hooch, baby. You're drunk."

"I am?" she giggled. "So that's why there's two of you, and the room keeps swaying. I'm drunk! But I don't drink. Ever. Seriously. Drinking is _bad_. It makes people do bad things, or naughty things, or _mean_, nasty, violent things…I know all about that!" She stared across the table at him, her mind no longer operating normally, and her hang-ups and worries and fears failing to put the brakes on her behavior or her thoughts. All she could think, at all, was how utterly gorgeous he was. Just…beautiful. Sweet and strong and shy and such a good kisser, and so kind when he didn't have to be at all, and so good to her little boy. "You can take me, you know. Take me…take me to Siberia. Take me…take me to your darkest room. Take me to…to heaven. Turn off the lights, kiss me all over…or…or better yet, leave 'em on. You might as well…well _see_…" She nodded, tried to stand up, and fell quite gracefully to the floor. Her last thought, as she slipped into blissful unconsciousness, was that her ballet instructor would have been quite proud of that fall.


	14. Temptation

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 14

**Rating**: _**T**_ (Cover your eyes while you're reading this! No, wait, I didn't mean that!)

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

I didn't expect some of this to happen, but this afternoon while pretending to work, some ideas came to me and as soon as I got off I had to hammer this one out. But then I had to eat and watch "Cake Boss", so I didn't finish this until midnight. I just hope it doesn't go into M territory, and I did my best to be tasteful and leave a bunch to the imagination, rather than go for full disclosure. If it does, I apologize to anyone who might need a drink of water or something.

A cookie for whoever finds the reference to _The Princess Bride_!

* * *

Murdock somehow managed to get Alexandra back into her seat, and after gently slapping her cheek a few times she finally opened her eyes and looked down at him. When her finally focused, she smiled goofily at him.

"Hi!"

"Hi. Are you in there?" He was crouched beside her chair, looking up at her and studying her carefully for signs of head injury. Fortunately, as his grandmother had always said, God takes care of drunks and children.

"Yep!" She giggled happily. She started to list to starboard, so that he had to grab her and pull her back into a seated, rather than slumped, position, and she put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. "Hmm…nice shoulders…nice muscles…"

"Er…yeah. Think you can sit up for a few minutes, while I go get Face and Charissa?"

"Who?"

"Face and Char-…never mind. I'll be right back. Stay where you are, okay?"

"You're sho shexy," she said, touching his cheek. He didn't move, staring up into her beautiful, albeit slightly glazed-over, blue eyes. "Kish me…please?"

"Okay." He moved up a bit and kissed her softly, and her lips parted sweetly and he forgot who Face and Charissa were, too, and frankly couldn't have cared less about either of them, and took a champagne-flavored taste. He forgot pretty much everything else around him, too, but the spell was broken somewhat by Alexandra tipping forward. She bonked her head against his and fell onto his shoulder, asleep. He caught her before she could slide back to the ground, and gently settled her back into the chair, ignoring the canaries now flying around his head.

Her fall a few moments before had been amazingly elegant – like something right out of _Swan Lake_, if the swan was on a bender. Several restaurant patrons had been concerned, but he had refused their offers to help her back into her seat. He picked her up again and eased her back into the seat, and her head popped up. She gave him a beautiful, goofy smile. "Hi!"

"Indeed. Listen, I want you to stay here and be a good girl while I go get Face and Charissa…okay?" He wagged his index finger at her, and she followed it with her eyes, still smiling. "Can you stay here for me?"

"I'll be right here!" she said cheerfully, pointing at the table in front of her.

"Good. I'll be back."

"_Hasta la vista_, baby!" she crowed, and laughed like a loon. Murdock stared at her, blinking and shaking his head in amazement before going off to search for Face.

* * *

Alexandra liked how the lights twinkled and the wineglasses sparkled, and how the dancers swayed in spite of the constantly tipping dance floor. She vaguely recognized one of the couples, but couldn't quite place them, and trying to figure it out only made her head fuzzy. She thought about James and looked across the table, expecting to see him sitting there, looking beautiful, and frowned unhappily when he wasn't. Where was he? She had misplaced him! She looked around, wondering where she had last seen him.

Getting up, wobbling a little, she started toward the maitre'd's little wooden stand. He, too, wasn't where he was supposed to be, but then again, what with the floors being so bloody tilted, she didn't blame him for abandoning his post. She wouldn't report him, even if the ship hit an iceberg, she decided. She saw that there was a microphone there, and smiled. She would call James and he would take her home, and maybe – hopefully – he would kiss her some more.

* * *

"Face! We need to go."

Face had his namesake buried into the crook of Charissa's neck and only half-heard his friend, but there was no mistaking being kicked in the ankle. He almost dropped, and whirled around to glare at Murdock. "What the hell was that for?" he snapped.

"Alexandra is _drunk_, and we need to get her home."

Charissa, flushed, looked toward their table. "Where is she?"

"Alexandra doesn't drink," Face pointed out.

"Yes, and that's why she's _drunk_, and what do you mean, 'where is she'?" Murdock rounded on Charissa, agitated.

"Where did you leave her?" Face asked, looking toward the table as well.

"Over by the albino, I think" Murdock said through clenched teeth, having still not taken a look for himself. "At the table, you moron!" He whipped around, expecting to see his wife where he'd left her, but she was _gone_. "Oh, shit! Where is she?"

"I just asked that question, and the answer remains, 'I don't know'," Charissa said, annoyed with both of them.

Just then, the maitre'd's mike made an ear-splitting screech, and everyone in the restaurant turned to look.

Alexandra waved at them all. "Oooh…is this thing on? Hi! I seem to have…to have been lost. I am with the Meck and Purdock party. Would shomeone pleash she that I am returned?"

* * *

Charissa was having a lot of trouble keeping from laughing. The looks on their faces were priceless – she wished she had brought a camera. Murdock was trying to explain the destroyed fish tank, but the maitre'd was not amused, and neither were all the poor dying fish scattered all over the floor, along with thousands of shiny blue and silver pieces of glass that had once decorated the bottom of the tank. Along with about forty gallons of water, some kind of really disgusting kelp, a treasure chest, a pirate's skeleton and a broken castle.

Face was just doing his best to keep Alexandra propped up in a chair near the cloak roam, and was talking gently to her, trying to keep her awake and delay the mother of all hangovers. She saw Murdock whip out his wallet and knew he was going to have to write a good-sized check for this one.

Finally, the maitre'd was placated, and Murdock, rubbing his temples, stepped carefully through the water and glass and fish and peered down at his wife, who was dozing. "Baby, it's time to go home, before they call the cops."

"Pretty koi…" she said dreamily. "Why are they all over the floor? Ooh, look at that one! He's all polka-dotty! But he sure is breathing hard…"

Murdock didn't tell her. Charissa figured he would save that for when she was good and lucid. She followed them out into the night, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Who knew English aristocrats could be so much fun?

* * *

It took some creative thinking to get Alexandra into the car – the fresh air outside seemed to revitalize her, but she became a little uncooperative, stamping her foot and insisting that she had called her own bloody cab. She finally got in, but only when Murdock finally just opened the door and said, "Madame, your chariot awaits." That did the trick – she plopped in and promptly fell over. Murdock got in on the other side, Face revved up the 'vette and they started back toward Beverly Hills.

In the back seat, Alexandra's mild belligerence had been replaced by something else entirely. She had scooted over to sit close to Murdock, and Face nearly wrecked the 'vette when he looked back there through the mirror and saw her start nibbling on the pilot's earlobe. Murdock's cheeks reddened, but other than that, Peck couldn't tell that he was resisting her advances.

"Alexandra, behave yourself," Murdock chided. She finally obeyed him by falling into his lap and going to sleep, and she did not awaken until the 'vette pulled into the mansion's driveway, when she sat up and said, "Four-eighteen Grosvenor Square, please," and went back to sleep. He got out and went around to drag her out of the car, and carried her like a bride up the path to the door. He was at a loss as to how to get it opened, though, until Face came bounding up, grinning from ear to ear. "Keys, bud," he said, waggling them at the annoyed pilot. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, but made no effort to assist the pilot as he carried her over the threshold and into the house.

"I guess if this mansion's a-rockin', we shouldn't come a-knockin'?" Face called, and got a well-known hand gesture in response. He laughed, tossed Murdock's keys into the house, made sure the door was relocked, and pulled it closed. He galloped back to the 'vette and hopped in, cackling gleefully. Charissa raised her eyebrows.

"You know, I like that woman," Face said, starting up the engine. "I really do. She's fun!"

* * *

By the time Murdock had Alexandra upstairs and into her bed, she was asleep and pretty much dead weight, so that his arms and shoulders were killing him. He stared down at her as she slept, bathed in silver moonlight and so beautiful it almost hurt.

Sitting down beside her, he removed her shoes. He studied her small, perfectly formed feet and ankles and shins and knees, smiling a little when he came across a tiny run in her silk stockings. He finally decided that it couldn't be comfortable, to sleep in those things, so he carefully – making sure he didn't touch anything he shouldn't – reached up and finally found their waistline and gingerly tugged. She made a little whimpering sound in her throat, and he took advantage of that, by giving her hips a little lift. A disgruntled look crossed her face, but he finally had success and dropped the stockings to the floor by the bed, next to her shoes.

Suddenly feeling overheated, he pulled his jacket off and threw it to the floor, not really giving a damn if it got wrinkled. Face would have a fit, but Face wasn't here in this room with Alexandra…and Murdock would be damned if his friend ever set foot in here, either, under any circumstances.

Succumbing to temptation, Murdock removed Alexandra's skirt and dropped it to the floor onto his jacket. She was wearing cute little white cotton panties with pink and yellow stars all over them, and he couldn't keep from laughing a little at them. He stopped _there_, though, and took a deep breath. She sighed softly and murmured something unintelligible, and Murdock let himself go completely astray. He undid the buttons on her blouse, starting at the bottom, saving the best for last, until the top one was undone. She muttered again, and he laid a soft kiss on her lips. She sighed into his mouth, and he pushed the silk blouse apart, revealing her lace-and-silk-clad breasts.

"Damn…" he moaned, lifting her up so that he could remove the blouse entirely. It too landed in the pile by the bed, and he stretched her out again, across the bed, rubbing his cheek against hers, finding the silk of her skin intoxicating. He tested other patches of her skin, heading downwards, and felt her fingers stroking his hair, but when he glanced up, she was still sleeping, mumbling softly.

He knew he should stop. Knew he should get up and leave, so she could sleep in peace. He'd put on some good strong coffee and crack a raw egg or two and sober her up first thing. But he was only a man – just as human as the next one, and this was his wife. He had _some_ rights…didn't he? He looked down at her again, dazzled. Her breasts weren't large, but were full and soft and round and womanly, and he knew they would fill his hands perfectly. The thought of that made him ache, and he forced himself to look at her face again.

For several moments, he just watched her, feeling like a total bastard, not strong enough to do the honorable thing and leave. He finally dragged himself out of the bed, cursing under his breath. He kicked off his shoes, yanked his socks off, and pulled his shirt off over his head, making a mess of the perfectly coiffed cut from Raoul or whatever the hell his name was. He threw the shirt into the pile of clothes by the bed, and thought about the consequences. It only took him a second to damn the consequences.

He gave Alexandra a gentle shove, and she barely stirred. A few more strategic pushes finally had her stretched out on the bed, facing him. He decided he'd better just leave his pants on, all things considered.

After a couple more deep breaths, he climbed into the bed with her, telling himself that he probably should sleep with her anyway, as she might go wandering and bonk her pretty head on something, or fall off the bed and hurt herself. Yes, that was an excellent reason, and he'd tell her that if she asked. He lay down, facing her, watching her sleep. He brushed her hair back, and slowly traced the line of her jaw to her chin, and lifted her face to him. He kissed her softly, and she sighed again as her lips parted. "James…mmm…."

"I don't envy you the headache you're gonna have tomorrow morning," he told her softly, before kissing her again, only needing to use a little suction to get her to kiss him back through her haze of sleep and alcohol. He did his best to not touch her otherwise – no way in hell was he going to make love to a drunk, unconscious woman. If and when he ever did that with Alexandra, she was going to be wide awake and sober, and the lights were going to be on until he was damn well finished.

"I'll get up early, baby," he told her, between breathless kisses, letting his hands start to explore at last. "You won't know I was ever here."

* * *

Alexandra figured she had pretty much blown it with James now.

They had been married five days, and she had been drunk for two of them - right after giving him that pious schpiel about how she disapproved of alcohol and wanted none of it in her house. Granted, she hadn't actually brought any in, but she had been put to bed drunk _twice_.

She had awakened to a headache that really ought to have just killed her. She lay on the bed for a long time, trying to think up some kind of excuse for getting schnockered last night. She had wanted to loosen up and relax? Well, sort of. She did want to cast off some of her inhibitions, but she had lost count of the number of glasses of champagne she had consumed, so it was really a wonder she hadn't cast off her clothes and dove into the wading pool, like she had done when she was six and had snatched a bottle of schnapps from the cabinet at some birthday party. She hadn't known about that stuff back then, but she certainly knew about it _now_.

She pulled the sheets up over her head, blocking out the sun. Try as she might, she could not remember anything of what she had done last night. Not even little snapshots were coming to her. She remembered the shopping spree with Charissa, and James singing that beautiful song, but after that everything got terribly _blurry_.

Finally, she got out of bed and was startled to see that she was wearing nothing but her bra and knickers. She blushed, and looked around the room, as if expecting someone to be standing there leering at her. But what surprised her most was that her skin seemed to be a little chapped – her shoulders and her chest…and her breasts, as if something slightly rough had been rubbing against her. She went to the cheval mirror and peered at herself, bewildered, and saw that her skin was indeed a little pink down there. Weird. Must have fallen down kind of hard on some kind of carpet, in my drunken state, she thought, and sought out her silk bathrobe. The material rubbing against her made her flush, and through her headache she recalled being kissed, and gentle hands caressing her, and a warm, pleasant weight on her body.

Alexandra shook her head and decided she must be at her time of the month. Why else would she be having such crazy fantasies? Granted, she thought as she tied her wild hair back and went out into the hallway, she was married to a man she found extremely attractive. But she knew that even if he had been doing that to her, she would have finally freaked out, sober or drunk. So far, James had not pushed that issue with her at all, but she knew she still had those _issues_, and they weren't going to go away any time soon. No amount of being sexually attracted to him could make things that simple. She just wondered how he would react when she finally _did _freak out.

She smelled bacon frying, and coffee brewing, and was surprised that she didn't feel nauseated at the scent. She headed downstairs, and winced when she heard James banging a spatula against the edge of the frying pan, muttering to himself in what sounded like Spanish.

"Hi."

He jumped, startled, and turned to stare at her, a cautious expression on his face. He was wearing jeans and a grey cotton dress shirt, but it wasn't tucked in, and she knew there was no way anyone would wrestle him into a tie today.

"G'morning," he said, swallowing. "Hungry?"

"I am, actually. Uh…I guess I got…drunk…last night." She looked at her feet. When she heard him snort with laughter, she looked up, immediately ticked. "You find that amusing?"

"Well…kind of. But it's okay. Everybody gets drunk sometime. Or, well, almost everybody. I've been drunk a few times m'self. And I've done some outright dumb things in my life, baby. One time, I rented an apartment in Austin, right before I enlisted, and decided I'd paint the floors, but I accidentally painted myself into a corner. Missed Christmas." He turned back to his frying bacon and used a fork to flip the pieces, and yelped when some grease popped and burned his hand. "Don't worry about it."

"But I don't _like_ to drink," she told him. She spotted the coffee pot and made a beeline for it. After pouring herself a cup, she sipped silently, watching him. He slipped the fried eggs onto a plate, added three strips of bacon, and handed her the plate.

"Eat, woman," he told her. "Protein's good for ya, when ya have a hangover. I was thinkin' about makin' you swallow a raw egg, too, but that's just a bit much, even for an Englishwoman getting over a bender."

"Thank you, kind sir," she said with some asperity, and sat down at the table. "I take it Nick is still at B.A.'s?"

"No, he is now with Face and Charissa. I have a feeling they're practicing or something. Either that, or they're corrupting him. Let's hope it's the former."

She watched her husband pour himself a cup of coffee and lean back against the counter. "So…what, exactly, did I do last night? Don't spare me the details, Captain. I can take it."

"Well…first you stripped and performed one of those Riverdance routines."

She fixed him with a narrow glare, and he snorted with laughter again. He sat down across from her, and tipped the chair back a little, holding his cup in the palm of his hand. His green gaze made her suddenly flush and pull the top of her robe closed, and the memory of that first kiss came back to her in full force. When she finally was able to look at him again, his eyebrow lifted.

"Actually, you just commandeered the maitre'd's mike and requested that you be returned to the Meck and Purdock party, as you had been lost."

She sighed. "I see."

"Then you insisted on looking into that big fish tank…you know, the one by the door?…and I'm afraid you lost your balance, and in your efforts to get straightened out, you kind of…pulled it down. I have to say, Alexandra, if you ever start getting high and mighty with me, I'll just have to bring back the memory of you, spread out on a bed of dying koi, singing "Under the Sea"."

"Oh my." She covered her face with her hands and would have laughed if it weren't so awful and embarrassing. "And…and how much did that cost?"

"Roughly a thousand bucks." He took another sip of his coffee. "I offered to sing for my supper every night for a few weeks, to cover the bill, but no dice. The restaurant owner was apparently very attached to that lionfish."

Alexandra was appalled. "I'll…I will pay you back somehow, James. I promise."

"Pay me back?" He shook his head, laughing. "I'm your husband, not your debtor. Eat your breakfast," he said, pointing at her plate of eggs and bacon. "So…anyway…how're you feeling…otherwise?"

"I'll be all right. Eventually." She looked down at her robe, and remembered that underneath it she was wearing nothing but her underwear. "I don't even recall…uh…getting undressed…for…for bed. I must have been really pissed."

"As a newt," he nodded, but his face took on an odd expression. She could have sworn he looked guilty, but for the life of her, Alexandra couldn't figure out why. She ate her bacon and eggs and relaxed, watching James do a crossword puzzle in the paper, occasionally supplying him with an answer to a clue, but otherwise recovering from her hangover and enjoying the quiet morning.

He refreshed her cup of coffee and went back to his puzzle, filling in most of the clues himself but sometimes asking her opinion. As she ate and tried to think of the name of Gwyneth Paltrow's mother, a memory suddenly came to her, and it made her sit up straight and look at her husband.

_He_ had undressed her last night.

James finally looked up at her, and his brow furrowed. "What?"

"N-Nothing…" she whispered, and stood up. "I had better go get dressed."

"Something's wrong. What's wrong?" He sounded alarmed, and looked suitably worried. Of course he ought to be worried, she thought, trying to stir up some outrage with him. But now other memories of last night were coming to her. Of his kiss, and his touch, and how warm and safe he had made her feel. Try as she might, she couldn't make herself angry at him for that…or anything else. But he had taken _liberties_! Outrageous liberties!

"So…did you sleep well last night, James?" she asked him mildly.

"Uh…yeah. I…sort of. Kind of. Why d'ya ask?"

"Just wondering. You look a little…weary. And you need to _shave_."

His expression was a mixture of surprise and embarrassment, and she lifted an eyebrow. He shuffled the newspaper and cleared his throat. "Right. I'll get right to that." But he didn't move. He was pretending to read the paper, but she caught him looking at her again. If she had been a bolder person – or drunk – she would have let the robe slip off her shoulders and let him take some more liberties. But as it was, she was not bold and she still had plenty of inhibitions and hang-ups and secrets that were starting to make themselves present again, like the cruel, hateful little bastards they were. Bloody good timing they had, too!

She left him to his puzzle, but at the top of the stairs, she remembered. "James?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Blythe Danner!"

Once in her room again, Alexandra sat down at her vanity table and stared at herself in the mirror. Up until now, she hadn't let herself think much about the past. Frankly, she had been too busy with just trying to live and move forward to let her mind go back to the events following her wedding. In fact, she had blocked it all out, until she had almost convinced herself that she had forgotten it all. Lately, living with James, she had even convinced herself that she was on her way to being normal.

But there it all was again - the fear and the pain and the humiliation. The exhaustion from running, and how cold she had been, and the wild drive through the near pitch-darkness, and hysterically praying for something no sane person would ever pray for…


	15. Flight

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 15

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

* * *

I started this chapter four different ways, and I'm still not completely happy with it. It's a filler. Moving right along, keeping the ball rolling. Much better stuff in later chapters, I hope (including a plot twist and some cameos that I know will have everybody hating me for a little while! LOL!). Just had to beat this one out to keep the narrative going. Otherwise, the next chapter wouldn't have made sense. Ugh…

* * *

_She was running, barely able to see her hand in front of her face but too terrified to stop. Brambles were cutting her bare legs, tearing at the lace hem of her silk nightgown. She had no idea where she was, or where she was going, but anywhere was better than what was behind her. Coming for her. She could hear the car's engine, and angry shouting. A voice she would never forget, screaming her name and demanding she come back and accept what was coming to her. _

_She just kept running, blindly, barely even feeling the rocks cutting the soles of her feet. She fell several times, her knees and palms cut and bleeding, but she somehow got to her feet each time. But she heard the car brakes, and the headlights flashed in front of her as the car turned sharply into her path, spraying gravel in her face, making her shield her eyes and start sobbing helplessly, knowing she couldn't escape. She would never escape…_

Alexandra screamed and almost fell out of the bed in her terror, and sat, gasping for breath, shivering, wildly searching the room barely-lit room, expecting to see it all again. She could feel the chilled air, the gravel cutting into her feet, the scrapes and cuts on her knees and palms – they were so painful she looked at her hands, expecting to see them bleeding. But she was in her bed in Beverly Hills, and in three hours she would be leaving for England, where it had all started in the first place.

Getting up, she methodically straightened the sheets and blankets, and arranged the pillows neatly before going through her final checklist of items she had remaining to pack for the long flight. After dressing and getting herself in order, she looked around for loose-fitting shoes, knowing her feet would swell on the plane. She had games and puzzles for Nick, of course, and some music and a few books for herself. She had no idea what James might carry with him, but she suspected he would soon be bored, whatever he took. She had left him to pack his own things. In fact, she had left him alone the past four days in a row.

Her door rattled and opened – he always did that, pulling it before he remembered and pushed – and James looked in at her. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she answered cautiously. "When are we leaving?"

"I heard you…were you screaming?" He stepped into the room and looked around, as if expecting to find the source of her fright giggling in a corner.

"I…I had a nightmare," she told him, and turned away to gather her novels and puzzle books, and her iPod (a wedding present from James), shoving them into her carry-on bag.

He didn't move from the doorway. Just stood there, watching her, and she finally forced herself to look at him. He looked as handsome as ever, in a casual but well-tailored gray dress shirt he had left untucked from his black jeans. He did look fabulous in dark clothes, she decided. It did so much for his coloring and his lean, strong physique. For a moment, she remembered his arms around her, and how safe she felt, but after four years of being blocked out, that nasty little demon had come back to life with a vengeance, and she felt as raw and ripped-open as she had when she'd awakened in that hospital bed, the nurse looking down at her with such sympathy.

"A nightmare?" His brow furrowed, and she chewed on her lower lip. "What kind of nightmare?"

"Just a nightmare," she said. "You know – I don't enjoy flying, so…so of course I would have a nightmare now, wouldn't I?"

He contemplated that statement, then stepped closer. Alexandra longed to move into his arms, to feel his kiss again, to draw strength from him, and to know everything was going to be okay. Instead, she turned away and finished stuffing her bag with the last items needed for survival aboard a plane, minus a bottle of Quaaludes. "Is Nick ready?" she asked him, and felt like bursting into tears when she saw his confusion.

"Yeah, and running around in circles," he informed her with a forced smile. "I think we might need to give him a sedative."

"He'll settle down, once he's on the plane. He always does."

"I never did," James told her, as he opened the door and held it open for her as she walked out. She brushed against him as she passed, and her reaction to him surprised them both – she jumped back, gasping. When she looked up at him at last, she saw not only confusion there, but also growing anger. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

"Nothing!" she said, trying to sound cheerful. "I…I must have…uh…it's…the flight leaves in three hours, right? They always say to be there two hours ahead, and considering it's…"

"Tell me what's wrong," he demanded again. This time, he moved into her path, and wouldn't let her get by.

"I said nothing, James. Nick!" she yelled around him. "Are you ready, Peanut?"

James looked extremely displeased with her, but he finally moved out of the way when Nick came barreling up the stairs, practically exploding with excitement. He leapt into his mother's arms and she checked to make sure he had combed his hair and brushed his teeth before setting him down, taking his hand and leading him downstairs. At the landing, she looked up and saw her husband's expression – he was very definitely _not_ happy, and had not been happy for the past four days. As if she had been, she thought bitterly, turning away. Did he think she was happy with how things were? Did he think she didn't miss him?

B.A. and his black van were already at the curb, and she was met at the door by Face and Hannibal, who were hauling their remaining bags away. B.A. picked up her son and carried him, a giggling piece of luggage, to the van, where he would ride with the men to the airport. That meant, of course, that she would be alone in the car with James.

She didn't appreciate Hannibal's searching look, or the way he raised his eyebrows at James as he came down the stairs.

"So where've you been, and what's her name?" James asked the Colonel, and Alexandra was shocked to see Smith _blush_.

"Uh…er…you got a haircut?"

"That's a stupid name for a woman. What is she, an Indian or somethin'? You Got A Haircut, daughter of Chief Party Mullet and his wife Flo Beehive? C'mon…"

Hannibal's answer was drowned out by B.A. honking the van's horn and yelling for them to hurry up. Alexandra swallowed nervously and allowed James to open the door for her. She settled in and kept from looking at him as he shut the door and went around. It took him a minute or two to get the seat adjusted to his height and legs, then he started up the engine. The radio blared Dwight Yoakam's 'Fast As You'. He turned it off, right before Dwight could say 'Oh, Sookie'.

"So when are you gonna tell me what's going on?" he asked her.

"I said, nothing is going on. And B.A. will have a fit if we don't get moving."

"B.A. can go hang!" he snapped. "Up until four days ago, you were talking to me. Now it's like pullin' up carpet tacks just to get you to say one word. So what the hell is the deal?"

She began wringing her hands, a habit she had begun as a child and one she had never been able to break. "And I said there was nothing wrong," she finally answered. She forced herself to look at him, and his eyes weren't that lovely green any more, but paler – almost the color of anger itself. She swallowed. "I'm just…very nervous about…about going to England. It's been a long time, and I'm not sure of what kind of reception I'll get, and I'm worried…"

James didn't say anything else. He backed the car out of the drive, so quickly and so expertly that she was astonished. "Where did you learn how to drive like that?" she asked him.

"I saw _Cannonball Run_…nine times," he answered tersely.

* * *

Once their luggage was all taken away – a vast heap that was costing extra for the weight and largely consisted of Face's clothes – they had nothing to do but sit around, bored out of their minds and people-watching. Murdock heard six different languages being spoken in one hour, and thus overheard some humdinger conversations. An argument in Spanish about a freaking _toaster_. A lengthy discussion between two old women, in Hebrew, had been about a grandchild that was covered with tattoos and thus could never be buried in a Jewish cemetery ("And what will she do when she's a grandmother? That gecko she has on her chest will look more like an alligator when she's my age!"). A Greek woman complained at length to her husband about how he never talked to her, all while he studiously ignored her and played Soduko. A very angry Brazilian woman cursed for almost an hour at her boyfriend (who, from what Murdock could tell, would soon be her ex and very dead boyfriend), and the bilingual woman on the airport intercom announced arrival and departure times in that bland, unaccented monotone that reminded him of news anchors and politicians.

His head was starting to hurt. Hannibal had dozed off, his trip to northern California having apparently tired him out. He had been incapable of sensible conversation, and he was slumped back, twitching and mumbling between snores, which only irritated Murdock more. Face was on his cellphone with Charissa, lamenting his lengthy visit to England and the fact that her work was keeping her at home. B.A. had turned on his iPod and was reading some car magazine.

Meanwhile, Murdock hadn't had a real conversation with his wife, or even been alone in a room with her, in four days and frankly it was driving him crazy. A bad sort of crazy – the sexually frustrated, sleep-deprived, anxious kind of crazy that he had, until less than a week ago, barely experienced in his life. He was far more used to manic crazy, or random neural firings crazy, not this almost euphoric, staring-at-her-breasts-all-the-time crazy. He wanted her. So desperately, so hungrily it was all he could think about lately. And he didn't just want her sexually, either. He just…wanted her.

Murdock cursed in Finnish and tried to get his jaw unclenched. He had been so tense lately that he was even starting to snap at B.A., who was seated next to him. They had gotten into a squabble yesterday, during a game of Horse, and they had been close to blows until Face had pushed them apart and threatened Murdock with a Time Out and B.A. with none of Murdock's cooking for a _week_.

He winced as B.A. turned up the sound on the iPod. Rap. Murdock hated rap – it just sounded like a bunch of angry men shouting, possibly because the guy who was supposed to provide the melody had failed to show up. He got up and stretched tight muscles, then sat down again, looking across at Alexandra, who was sitting there cross-legged, reading a novel. He carefully memorized her features again, for future reference and tonight's lonely fantasies – thick raven-dark hair, creamy, magnolia-petal skin; wide blue eyes, a straight, slender nose, pretty, easily-smiling mouth, and a nicely formed chin. He had spent that all-too-memorable night familiarizing himself with the way her skin felt against his own – against his hands, and against his lips, and _that_ made his dreams even more vivid – and harder to cope with. He had had one small taste of paradise, and now that wasn't going to be enough. He feared that sooner or later, he was going to crack…

"What'sa matter with you, fool?" B.A. snapped, glaring at him. Murdock looked down and saw that his knee was bouncing at about warp speed.

Murdock shot to his feet and stalked away, needing to find something to do before he went completely bonkers. Face's gaze followed him as he wrapped him his conversation with Charissa, and as soon as he signed off with her he stood up and followed Murdock over to the windows, where he now stood watching the planes land, hands in his pockets.

"Hey, bud, you okay?" Face asked him.

"'mokay," Murdock muttered back through clenched teeth.

Face watched a plane land, wishing he knew how to handle those lethal things, and glanced at Murdock, wondering how he did it with such ease. He knew his friend – his best friend in the world, the one guy he knew he could go to with any problem and not be judged – could handle quite a lot, but right now, he didn't seem to be handling things at all too well, and the strain was showing.

"I hate this. Not bein' at the controls. I'll hate sittin' there, doin' nothin' for that long. Maybe I…maybe I should take something? You know…to keep me calm?"

Face nodded and dug in his pockets. For years, he had been in charge of Murdock's medication and when it was to be administered. He had learned, by careful observation, just when the pilot needed sedatives in particular. He didn't need them when he was happy or even when he was at his most manic. He actually needed them most when he was depressed…or frustrated. And things did frustrate Murdock, sometimes. Namely, his loneliness. Face knew this, and it worried him a lot, until recently. Now, he saw it in the pilot's eyes again. Loneliness and confusion, and lately, anger.

"Yeah, here you go. Just one, for now, though. I think it'll do the trick." He glanced back at Alexandra, who had raised her head and was watching them. "How're are things going, by the way?"

"They're going," Murdock muttered back, taking the pill and going in search of a water fountain.

* * *

The flight was lengthy, and exhausting to everyone, and tempers were short as they disembarked from the plane. Alexandra felt like she was going to drop by the time they finally got into their rental cars and started toward Cornwall and Kedlington Castle, the ancient seat of the Earls of Eddington. She held her breath a little as they headed toward Bodmin Moor and the coast. Port Isaac was the largest town near the castle, but they would pass through the tiny village of Kedlington Cross before turning up the hill and through the gates of the castle itself.

She looked at her watch. It was midnight Los Angeles time, which meant it was eight in the evening now. Still, she felt no urge to change her watch to London time. She liked to think that soon, she would be back in California. Under what circumstances, exactly, she didn't know, but in her own fantasies – the ones the demons let her have – she was in some warm, comfortable home with James and her son, and maybe even more children - lean, green-eyed children with agile minds and sweet natures. She didn't need a mansion in Beverly Hills. She just needed a home…and James.

The light had been long, bumpy and nerve-wracking. No wonder all the men in her life were grumpy – they had all been stuffed into a giant Tylenol-shaped metal tube with wings, fed horrible food, denied the right to move at will, and had hot hair blown on their faces while strapped into seats created for undersized alien creatures, and all for eleven hours straight. B.A. was twice as grouchy as ever, the sedative he had taken having not taken full effect and leaving him in an kind of twilight until they landed at Heathrow and somebody dropped a laptop on him. The only one who seemed none the worse for wear was Nick, who was peering out the window of the rental car at the countryside as it flashed by. It was late evening, and last golden light of the late August day made the ancient stone walls along the road seem to glow, and the fields almost blindingly green. Everything seemed to stand out in sharp colors, far more than she remembered.

James was keeping one hand on the steering wheel and rubbing his temple with the other. He was stressed, and she could certainly imagine why. Four days now, she had kept him at arms' length, avoiding him and not explaining why. How _could_ she explain? Particularly when things had been going so well between them before? It wasn't as though she didn't long for his touch, and for his kiss. It wasn't as she though she wasn't about to run mad with loneliness.

Sighing wearily, she glanced to the back seat, where Nick was peering out the window at a flock of sheep grazing in a green field. "Look, Mummy. They look like cotton balls!"

She smiled and glanced at James. "Do you know there's a Beast of Bodmin Moor?"

He braked sharply, looking around wildly. "What? Where?" Hannibal, Face and B.A., driving behind them in a rental Land Rover, braked too, tires screeching, and only barely avoided colliding with them. Murdock started the car again, jerking the vehicle a little, looking embarrassed. B.A., fortunately, wasn't driving, so he didn't get angry honks and incoherent shouting. Alexandra looked back and saw Face gripping the steering wheel, a bit ashen but otherwise all right.

"Not in the_ road_," she said. "I mean…it's on the moor. Some say it's a large cat, or a dog on steroids, or something like that."

"A cryptid," James muttered. "I don't really need cryptids now. I've watched every episode of _MonsterQuest_ and _Destination Truth_ ever aired, and they've yet to find a dam-…a thing. Trap cameras, pheromones, recordings of wolf howls and ape calls, bait, blah-dee-blah…and still, nothing."

"So I gather you are not a believer," Alexandra said, hoping to make some repair to the bridge that had existed between them.

"I believe in pheromones. How'd'ya think any of us even got here?" He saw the sign that pointed him toward Kedlington Cross, and made the turn, almost swerving into the right (wrong) lane but correcting himself in the nick of time, before a lorry ran over them.

Alexandra flushed, thinking about that pheromones, and looked out the window at some cattle grazing in a field. "I would have thought you'd be big into hunting Bigfoot, Yeti…Yowie…the Abominable Snowman."

"Are you kidding? Ever since I met B.A., I saw no reason to pursue such things. I'll bet Bigfoot's lookin' for _him_. I'll bet there's whole B.A. Societies amongst Bigfoots of the Northeast. They sit around, wild-eyed and trembling, discussing sightings of big, mean, ugly mudsuckers that drive big, mean, ugly vans. They've made plaster molds of footprints and put out newsletters. They have weekly meetings, to discuss the mood swings alone, and the aptitude for destruction, and the unwarranted fear of flying."

She couldn't keep from smiling. In spite of his obviously rattled nerves, his good humor and sweet nature were always going to be there, ready to come out and play. She let herself breathe a sigh of relief, and they continued on toward her home and her past.


	16. The Castle

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 16

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

* * *

"This is it," Alexandra said softly, looking at the huge castle rising up before them. James peered up at it, looking uneasy.

"It looks like a hotel," he finally said. She gave him a sidelong glance before looking back at her son.

"This is where I was born, honey. They didn't have time to get my mother to town, and the midwife only barely made it…" She sighed, realizing he was too young to understand. Her mother had hemorrhaged horribly after the agonizing but brief labor, and the frantic midwife had immediately called for a doctor, but an accident on the road had delayed him. The Countess of Eddington had died only minutes before the doctor arrived – no one, frankly, could have saved her. Her grandfather had arrived the following day, bellowing about how the Earl had failed to give him the male heir he wanted (never mind that a boy would have also inherited the earldom and far more prestige, such as it was), and that the Earl had also killed his only child.

Cecelia – only six months a widow at the time – had taken charge then. Threw Collingwood out of the house, not caring a whit how he felt about it, took the newborn baby girl to the local hospital to be checked over, and brought her back home. A week later, she was christened at St Mary's Church in Kedlington Cross, named Alexandra Eleanor Marie Louise (for Cecelia's own mother, a godchild of Queen Alexandra herself). Her father had been catatonic with grief, barely able to function at all, and so the Countess had hired the required nurse to take care of the baby and saw to pulling her son out of his heartbreak. Cecelia would say, countless times, that there was no use hanging onto grief, because it only pulls you down and makes it worse. _Life is for the living_.

The castle was indeed enormous, and clapped together from various styles, additions and foundations. The original part of castle had been built in 1079, as part of the Conqueror's scheme to build a ring of Norman-occupied castles to solidify his stronghold on England. Kedlington's first owner was Alexandra's ancestor Henry, Baron de Brienne, a Caen-born knight who landed at Hastings and married a Saxon woman springing from the old families of the area with a vague connection to the old royal family for good measure. The line prospered for a while at Kedlington, the castle growing and being added to in various styles over the years. In 1588, the last Lord de Brienne died with only a daughter, Eleanor (for whom at least one girl of each succeeding generation was named), who married John Graham, Lord Eddington. In 1689, Philip Graham, 4th Lord Eddington, was given an Earldom for his courage in battle and devoted service to the Crown, and his descendants had held the title and the deed to the castle ever since. The Earls were respected in Cornwall, and served in the military with distinction, followed by various positions in the Government, while the Countesses generally preferred working for local charities to going up to London. The family had a reputation for being hard-working, thrifty, generous and only mildly eccentric. The 6th Earl, for instance, wore only purple and let a trained parrot did all his talking for him. An aunt firmly believed fairies were living in her spider fern, and insisted on sewing tiny outfits for them, and made little tables and chairs out of bamboo, refusing to accept that the fairies were just mice.

Kedlington was four acres under one roof. Norman style on the east and oldest wing, with Gothic and Tudor additions done in the 14th and 16th centuries, respectively. The front of the castle, facing them now, was very definitely Gothic, with turrets and flying buttresses, stained glass and gargoyles, but offset by a Georgian-style portico and curving stone stairway jutting out in front of the huge wooden doors that led into the Great Hall. At the top of each turret was a Union Jack and underneath, a flag displaying the family crest.

Alexandra told Nick a carefully edited history of the castle, leaving her more loony relatives out, while James sat silent in the drivers' seat, looking a little more than unnerved.

"In ten-seventy-nine," he announced. "My ancestors were still living in trees."

"Oh, James, I doubt that," she laughed. "They were Scots, weren't they? They were warrior poets."

He snorted derisively and turned into the circular drive, parked at the steps, and got out. The Rover stopped behind them, and the three soldiers got out, looking up at the castle. "Well, I do have some Irish blood. I guess I can say I'm descended from a few of the petty little kings of western Ireland. You know – 'Hi, I'm the King. This is my wife, the Queen. I'm King from that tree to that rock, to that cow. And this is our dog, Prince'."

Alexandra laughed, softly, and got out of the car.

"Well, Murdock, I have to say – you definitely married up," Hannibal said, pulling out a cigar and lighting it. That got him an odd look, before James came around and helped Nick out, letting the boy climb up onto his shoulders for a ride up the steps.

"Well, what do we do?" Face asked her. "Knock? Pound? Burn the door down?"

"Ring the…the bell," she said weakly. Hannibal looked around and found the bell-pull, and yanked on the rope. A bell above them clanged loudly, making all of them except Alexandra jump in alarm.

"Good God!" James gasped. "Where's Quasimodo?"

A few moments later, there was a creaking noise as a small door near the top of the door was pulled in and a wizened old man's face appeared, glaring suspiciously at them all.

"We have already donated to numerous worthy causes in the area, but I'm sure you all can find better clothes on your own. Go 'way!" The little door was slammed shut, leaving the four mercenaries looking vaguely offended.

"I guess the wizard ain't seein' nobody, not nohow," James murmured to Face, who cackled with laughter.

"Miles!" Alexandra shouted. "It's me…Alexandra!"

The door opened again and the man stared down at her. "Lady Alexandra!" he wheezed. "Lord bless us and save us!" He disappeared again, and after a few moments of scraping, locks being undone, muttering, gasping and manful heaving, the huge door was slowly pulled open. The men all expected to be staring up at a very tall man, but instead, after a moment, they all looked down at what appeared to be the world's smallest butler.

"Uh…" Hannibal scratched his ear, unprepared for this one.

"Miles, it's so good to see you again!" Alexandra smiled, bending down to give the little man a hug. "I suppose we're very unexpected."

"You are indeed, Lady Alexandra, but never unwelcome. Your grandmother will be delighted to know you're here…with your friends," he grinned, smiling. He was wearing a slightly worn but fitted tuxedo, complete with tartan cummerbund and tam. "Please, all of you come in," he said, gesturing. "And who is this little lad?"

Nick, still perched on James's shoulders, peered down at the little butler with wide eyes. The pilot swung him down, murmured something in his ear, and Nick made his mother proud by smiling shyly at the little butler and presenting his hand. "My name is Nicholas."

"Howdee-do, laddie," Miles laughed. "And these gentlemen are…?"

"This is…uh…Colonel Smith, and Sergeant Baracus, and Lieutenant Peck…and…and Captain Murdock," she said, introducing each man and smiling apologetically when she realized she had done so out of order. James was second-highest in rank, after all, but none of them appeared to be bothered.

Miles looked at each man with curiosity, but he paused at James, studying him carefully. "Murdock, eh? Are you related to the Murdocks of York?"

"York, Pennsylvania? Hell, no. I ain't got no damn Yankees in my family. Llano, Texas by way of eastern Tennessee and southern Virginia, and then Scotland, by God."

Miles looked taken aback, but only for a moment. He nodded, stepped back, and indicated that they should all follow him. "Quite right. Her Ladyship is in the lounge. We've already had dinner, but I know we can scrounge something up for you all."

"Good," B.A. said. "I'm starvin'."

Alexandra knew she was the only one at ease in the Great Hall. Nick was staring up at the mounted heads of countless deer, elk, boar, and other wild beasts slain by her ancestors over the centuries. Suits of armor lined the hallway into the huge Tudor-style room, with its exposed beams, hand-carved replicas of numerous coats of arms, enormous portraits of men and women wearing huge hats and smug expressions – there was even a portrait of King Charles II, an ancestor of the 5th Earl by way of his mother. In the late 19th century the Earl of Eddington had held a weekend shooting party and ball, at which the Prince of Wales – the future Edward VII – had been a guest, and a room upstairs was called the Prince's Room for that very reason. Dozens of portraits of her ancestors hung on the walls, with some going back to Tudor days, with an original Holbein of a de Brienne. A huge fireplace, inside which ten men could stand comfortably, was blazing and shooting off sparks. Otherwise, the room would have been freezing even in August.

She hung back a little as the rest of the men followed Miles toward the lounge. She touched James's shoulder, and he looked at her, his expression wary.

"My grandmother has no idea of our marriage," she told him quietly. "I would appreciate it if you would let me tell her…okay?"

"Yeah. Fine. Only seems right…she doesn't have a heart condition or anything, does she?"

"No. She's as strong and healthy as a little French mare," she said softly, and couldn't keep from looking at his mouth. It had been four days since they had kissed. Four bloody days, and now she knew what junkies felt like when they went cold turkey.

"Good," he nodded, and went on, following Miles. Alexandra sighed, struggled to get her hormones under control, and went down the steps, through the pokey hallway, smelling the orange furniture cleaner that had been used on everything in the castle since Henry VIII divorced Katherine of Aragon, turned right and headed down the elegant hallway to the lounge door, where Miles was straightening his clothes carefully before knocking and entering the room. Alexandra took Nick's hand and held him back, waiting.

"Your Ladyship, I am pleased to announce that we have guests…may I present Colonel Smith, Captain Murdock, Lieutenant Peck, and Sergeant Baracus…"

Alexandra smiled, pleased that Miles have gotten them all in order.

The Dowager Countess of Eddington, seated on an overstuffed sofa with a teacup poodle at her side, sipping tea from a paper-thin china cup, stared at her butler as though he had lobsters crawling out of his ears. When she saw her guests she put the cup down, rattling it in the saucer. "Eh…what?" Her eyes were huge as she stared up at the four mercenaries. "Good…heavens!" The little dog, instead of barking, whimpered and hid behind her.

Alexandra ducked into the room, pulling Nick in front of her. The boy saw his great-grandmother and made a beeline for her, and the old woman – tall and slender, with thick white-blonde hair and lively blue eyes – looked astonished then delighted to see him. She forgot all about decorum and held out her arms for him, and Nick dove into her embrace. "Oh, my sweet little bounder!" she said, hugging him fiercely. "Alexandra!" She stood up and embraced her granddaughter, hugging her fiercely in turn and kissing her cheeks. "My lovely girl is finally home! Oh, I've missed you so much!" She hugged her again, laughing with joy.

Alexandra almost burst into laughter. Her grandmother was the doyenne of local Society, and had personal restraint the Queen envied, but all that flew out the window when it came to her children and grandchildren, all of whom she adored. Cecelia had no qualms about hugging and romping with them all, and would set aside even the most important engagements to talk to them about any problem they were having. "Gram, these are…some friends of mine. They've helped me tremendously in the past few days, and I know you'll…you'll love them all." She gestured to the men. "Please, all of you, sit down."

The Countess, not quite recovered from her shock and delight, made her way back to her seat and settled on the sofa again, cuddling her great-grandson against her, the poodle moving away and sitting down at the end of the sofa, eyeing the four men and trembling. The men perched uneasily on chairs around the lounge. Alexandra sought out her husband, and was relieved to see that he didn't look terribly shaken. In fact, he seemed pleased to see that her grandmother was so obviously a warm and kooky person.

"Miles, tell the maid to get some biscuits and…tea? Do you all drink tea?"

"Biscuits?" B.A. said, looking confused. "This time of night? Biscuits are for breakfast!"

"She means cookies," James informed him. "And no tea, thanks."

"How about lemonade, then?" the Countess beamed around the room. At their vague nods, she sent Miles to the kitchen. "All of you are from America?"

"Yes, ma'am," Hannibal nodded. "We…uh…brought Alexandra home, and are going to be staying at the Savoy in London, on Collingwood's dime."

"Oh, how delightful," Cecelia clapped her hands. "Stay there forever, if need be. Bleed the bloody ba…er…man dry!"

"Just for a couple weeks, ma'am," Hannibal grinned, looking at James, who shuffled his feet a little. "Collingwood hired us to find your granddaughter, which we did, and we've brought her home…" He caught her horrified expression, but shook his head, still grinning. "But only for a visit. She won't be staying with him, and neither will Nick for that matter."

"Oh, thank God," Cecelia said. She hugged her great-grandson to her again. "Tell me all about California, sweetheart. Do you like it there?"

"I like it. We live in a big mansion, and we have four-hundred channels on the TV, and there's a pool, and James lets me fly my Bogeefer…"

"Beaufighter," the four men corrected as one, and Alexandra rubbed her temples.

"…around the pool," the boy continued. "And James does all the cooking, 'cause Mummy just burns stuff…"

"Thank you, darling," Alexandra said, sighing.

"James?" Cecelia looked around the room. "Who is James?"

"He's my…" Nick started, but Alexandra cut him off.

"Sweetie, tell Gram about your kitten."

The boy smiled excitedly, his entire face lighting up. "I have a kitten! He's black and white and orange, and his name is Tinkle and he peed on Mummy's clean clothes and he likes to chew on feet."

"Oh…how…interesting." Cecelia was still looking at all the men, blinking. "You didn't bring him with you…did you?"

"No, he's back in Bubbely Hills. James put him in a kitty hotel."

"Beverly Hills," James corrected, looking like he as about to lose it. Alexandra looked at him and saw that he was just barely able to contain his laughter.

The maid arrived then, with a tray of glasses of lemonade.

"Uh…Gram, I have something I really need to…uh…tell you," Alexandra started.

"Well, first, let's all have a nice glass of lemonade. I'm sure you're all very hot and tired and I insist that you all stay here tonight, and I won't hear one argument about it. Obviously we have plenty of room! Last time I tried to count, there were thirty-six bedrooms in this place, but then I got hopelessly lost in the north wing and wasn't found for two days – had to survive on crisps. We've got considerably fewer loos, I'm afraid, but we manage so long as we eat plenty of oatmeal and don't go too far afield."

Hanniba, Face and B.A. looked at each other, and Alexandra knew they were all thinking her grandmother was as crazy as James.

The maid was doling out the lemonade, first to a flustered Alexandra, who was still struggling to find some way to break this news to her grandmother. She took her glass, and watched as each of the soldiers took a glass. The maid was starting toward James when she finally screwed up her courage. "Gram, James…Captain Murdock…and I were married last week." She gestured at James. "James is my husband."

The maid paused, looking at Alexandra and then at James. The room became extremely silent, with no one even breathing. Cecelia picked up her teacup and looked at James, whose eyes were wide and wary.

"You don't get any lemonade." She stood, putting the cup down and smoothing the front of her blouse. "Alexandra, darling, may I see you in the kitchen?"

* * *

Alexandra went into the kitchen with her grandmother, leaving the four men (with the exception of James) and Nick to drink lemonade and avoid eye contact with each other, as they did all possess good manners. Her grandmother closed the kitchen door.

"You're _married_?" Cecelia asked.

"You don't like him?" Alexandra squeaked.

"I don't know him!" Cecelia shook her head in astonishment. "I can hardly believe this…" She paused as the maid came back in, still carrying one glass of lemonade on her tray. "Oh, Vanessa, take the glass to Captain Murdock. I didn't mean what I said!" The maid rolled her eyes and went back into the lounge. She turned back to Alexandra. "You said you would never marry again, so I admit that this is a bit of a shocker, dear."

"You will like him…he's very kind, and he didn't have to do any of this for me at all, Gram. Grandfather hired those me to find me, and when they did, James offered to marry me instead of delivering me to Grandfather to be a bloody _prisoner_ back at Colecort, and I accepted his proposal…albeit, a vaguely indecent proposal…for my sake a little and Nick's a great _deal_. We've been married for ten days now." Alexandra blew out her cheeks, not sure how she had gotten through that impromptu speech without fainting.

"Good Lord," Cecelia said, making her way to a chair and sitting down. "And what sort of man is this…Captain James Murdock?"

"A very good, decent man," Alexandra said, wringing her hands nervously. "He's wonderful with Nick, and he's…he's very respectful and…and what?" she queried, off her grandmother's exasperated look.

"Respectful?" She rolled her eyes. "Well, I know I like a respectful husband, but respect doesn't make babies, dearest. In fact, it's usually being downright disrespectful. Or at least rather naughty."

"Gram, it's not like that…" Alexandra blushed. "I…I mean, we don't plan on…not…yet…"

Cecelia stood again and put her hands on Alexandra's shoulders, her expression serious. "Do you love him?"

"I like him," Alexandra swallowed, blushing, and turned pinker when her grandmother's eyebrow lifted. Her feelings for James were so mixed up and confused that she didn't know what to think from one day to the next. "He has his own problems, too."

"Oh? What sort of problems?"

"Uh…" Alexandra thought about her own reaction to the revelation about James's mental problems, and swallowed. She kind of doubted that her grandmother would be any more delighted about it. "Just…problems. You know. The run of the mill type of…er…problems." Like being wanted by the military. Like being a psychiatric patient. Like lacking self-esteem and confidence. "He's a pilot. He can fly anything. He served in the military – Desert Storm, and again lately in Iraq and Afghanistan, and various spots 'round the world, and has dozens of medals and commendations for his courage. He speaks dozens…_hundreds_ of languages. And like I said, he's very kind to Nick – so patient, and caring, and he…he's extremely intelligent."

Cecelia pondered these facts carefully. "He is also rather handsome, in a quirky sort of way," she finally nodded. "Not classically handsome, of course. That Peck fellow is very good-looking, but he reminds me of a shark. Your James isn't like that, though, I'll admit – he doesn't look like a ladies' man. Not from what I've seen, anyway. He's handsome, but doesn't seem to know it. A good thing in a man, I say."

"He's quality," Alexandra nodded, smiling a little. "Not to the manor-born, of course, and he doesn't come from wealth or anybody 'important'. His parents were just poor farmers, and his grandparents did something with cedar trees that I'm still not quite certain about, but they were respectable and decent people."

"Hillbillies, hm?" Cecelia looked amused. "Salt of the earth types?"

"Well, what's wrong with that?" Alexandra said, bristling. She didn't like to hear anyone speaking derisively of her husband, or his family for that matter.

"Nothing, of course." She smiled and studied Alexandra for a moment. "Well. Married again. I never thought I'd see the day, but I've got an open mind." Cecelia looked like she wanted to ask Alexandra a thousand questions, but only nodded. "All right. We'll get your friends into nice rooms, and you and James will share the Blue Room, of course."

"Sh-share?" Alexandra followed her grandmother back out of the kitchen and into the lounge. James had gotten up to stare at a large Neo-Classical painting of a man wearing nothing but a helmet, a sword and an anxious expression. He looked appalled by it, and turned back when the two women entered the room.

"Of course _share_, Goosey. The Blue Room is where every Earl of Eddington has been conceived. Granted, your children won't be earls, but it's sort of the family honeymoon suite. Captain Murdock, please excuse my rude behavior of before. Welcome to the family!" She held out her hand to him, and he finally took it. Cecelia looked down at his rough, calloused palms and smiled up at him. "Salt of the earth indeed! I'd say we need more of your type about!"


	17. Scars

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 17

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

**Note**: Actually, my father did get an eight-point buck with a VW Bug. It _was_ an accident, at least on his part (the deer was apparently suicidal), and he was on his way to work in Austin and so he called his mom and uncle to come get it for him, after clearing it with the local game warden. The VW was only mildly damaged – the engine was in the rear, of course, so the front was only caved in. Things like this happen in Texas. Seriously.

I decided to go ahead and post this chapter tonight, as well, since I had it written already and I will be so busy tomorrow I won't know whether to wind my butt or scratch my watch. Hopefully, I can get chapter eighteen polished before tomorrow night, when I finally have time to myself.

* * *

"Why is this called the Blue Room, when it's not even blue?" Murdock asked Alexandra.

It was almost midnight, and they were finally alone in the Blue Room, which was actually white-painted, with very light blue trim and a few blue decorations. Alexandra was nervously unpacking a few items and shoving them into one of those bombe chests that looked like a chest of drawers on steroids.

They had sat up in the lounge with the Dowager Countess of Eddington for some time, after the others had been fed and put to bed, Murdock struggling to just stay awake as jetlag hit him. Alexandra and her grandmother had talked for hours, and every now and then he had snapped awake to find them both staring at him. That alone gave him the jitters. Now, he was wide awake and alone in a bedroom with a woman he wanted more than he'd ever wanted any woman before, and he was expected to just keep his hands to himself.

"It used to be blue, but it was repainted during the reign of King George III, but no one could ever remember to call it the White Room, so it's still the…the Blue Room." Alexandra stood facing him, clutching her pajamas to her chest and watching him warily. "There's blue trim along the crown molding," she said, pointing her chin toward the ceiling. He glanced up and nodded.

"Right."

"I guess I'll sleep by the fireplace," he said tiredly, resigned to his fate.

"Of course," she said softly, looking at the floor.

"Shit…"

She glared at him. He was struggling with the zipper of his jacket, which he had done up to the neck, having found the lounge – and the whole castle - cold. He had spent all of his thrown-together meal and the hours in the lounge shivering.

"I can't get this damned thing off…" He jerked again, but the zipper only yielded a few inches before stopping completely. That made him feel panicky, confined inside the jacket, and it reminded him of straitjackets…and other, far more painful restraints. He struggled again to get it undone, but it wasn't going to happen without a blowtorch. "Damn it, Alexandra, help me!"

For a moment, she chewed on her lower lip, uncertain, but finally she went around to him and tried the zipper herself, but that only got a yelp and an angry glare from Murdock as the jacket collar hurt the back of his neck, and he tried to back away from her. "How can I get this thing undone if you're wiggling about? Now stand still!" She pulled at the zipper a few more times, ignoring his muttered epithets, but to no avail. Finally, she shook her head. "You'll just have to pull the jacket off, over your head."

"I can't," he said, tried to pull the bottom of the jacket up. "It's…okay, I'll pull it off. That seems to be the only solution." He struggled for a bit, but after a moment or two he felt like he was in a bad _Mr Bean_ skit and gave up. "All right, you pull it off."

"_Me_?" she said, her voice strangely soft. "I…oh. Right. O-Okay…right." She gingerly tugged upward at the bottom of the jacket. "Stand still!" she demanded, when he backed away from her again and knocked over the frightening fireplace implements that looked like something out of the Spanish Inquisition. The iron rods clattered to the marble floor, making both of them jump and stare at them for a moment, before looking at each other again.

"Listen, maybe this isn't such a go-good idea," he said, feeling lightheaded. Alexandra looked like she was made of sterner stuff, however, and she tried again, pulling harder, forcing him to bend over. This time, she managed to get the jacket and his shirt up, covering his face and making everything dark and suddenly terrifying, but she continued to tug determinedly to get both off and over his head completely. The jacket zipper only lightly scraped his face as she finally pulled it away. He stared at her as she stood there, breathing hard, staring at him. At his chest in particular, her eyes widening.

"You…you have so many scars," she said softly. For a moment, he thought she might reach out and touch one of them, and he knew he couldn't bear that. She had never seen him bare-chested in the light before. The only time he _had_ been that way in her presence, it had been dark…and he had been kissing her.

He gulped and nodded. "Uh…yeah. Battle…scars. War…you know…" He backed away again, and only barely managed to avoid falling into the fireplace itself.

She tilted slightly to peer at the Ranger tattoo on his bicep. "Airborne Rangers," she read, still slightly breathless.

"Right." He turned from her and tried to escape to the other side of the room, but stopped when he heard her soft gasp.

"James…your back…"

He didn't look at her. Couldn't bear to see the sadness and pity in her eyes. "Just some…you know…uh…rough…rough stuff happened long ago…ancient history."

"What happened to you?" she asked him in a whisper. "What kind of monster…did that to you?"

"That would be _monsters_, and believe me, they knew what they were doing." Anger and frustration made him forget to try to be calm. "Does it really matter? It was a long time ago, and it's over and…and…there's no use discussing it. I've been analyzed and drugged and _shocked_ by the best damn…and some of the worst, too, actually…listen, I just…I wanna take a shower, okay? They have showers in England, right? Plumbing has made it to this damned country, hasn't it, even if sauces never did?"

He finally managed to look at her, and he was startled to not see pity in her eyes. Concern, yes, and some sorrow. But not _pity_. She was holding his shirt and jacket in her hands, staring at him, her expression one he hadn't seen on anybody's face before, and thus one he couldn't define. "You've endured so much," she finally said, in a very soft voice.

"More than my share, and I don't talk want to talk about it. I don't like people lookin' at 'em, or touchin' 'em, or even seein' 'em…the scars, I...I mean, so…so just…drop it, okay?"

"You say it's over, though?" she asked him softly. "I don't think it's over. It doesn't appear to be."

"To hell with this!" he snapped. "I don't want your pity. I'll sleep by the fire. Good night." He stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, then leaned against it, squeezing his eyes shut, forcing those memories away. He had blocked them out, by way of all kinds of mental exercises that kept him from going _completely_ out of his mind. But now, to have Alexandra see them – to know even a little about them – was beyond his capabilities. He had no mental exercises, after all, to combat desire _and_ anger all at once.

He gazed around the bathroom, breathless, struggling to calm himself. He backed to the mirror over the sink and he looked back over his shoulder at the ugly scars on his back. There were plenty more on his chest, and on his legs, and in his mind. The external wounds had healed over just fine, with a nurse putting aloe and vitamin E on them as he had been strapped to that hospital bed, trying to make them fade as much as possible, but they were still there, just as ugly as always. The internal wounds – the ones in his head – would likely never fade completely.

He turned on the shower and let the water warm to his liking, then turned it down to freezing cold, to kill off any kind of remaining desire he might still have for her. He needed sleep – desperately, and if that didn't happen, maybe hypothermia would finally do the trick.

* * *

Alexandra sat down in a chair by the fireplace, still clutching his shirt and jacket, hugging them to her as though they were still worn by the man she had married. Her horror at the sight of his wounds had quickly been replaced by a tenderness she had never experienced before – a need to find some way to make him better, or to at least be some kind of comfort to him. But as soon as she thought about that, she knew she could never make anything better – she could not fix him. She was not his mother, his psychologist, nor his confessor. She was just his wife, and at this point, things didn't look too promising on that end anyway. But…they could be, couldn't they?

She kicked herself for being such a self-absorbed bitch – as if she was the only person alive who had gone through a personal trial, much less a tragedy. Obviously, James had endured something far beyond anything she had survived. Hadn't her scars faded to the point of being almost unnoticeable, except by herself? Only she really ever saw them when she looked at herself in the mirror, and she wasn't so stupid that she didn't realize that most of them were just imaginary. Not even the doctor and nurses in the delivery room had commented on them, and they had certainly had a good look. So what right had she to sit around making any kind of comparison between herself and him, when his scars were still so evident?

James suddenly emerged from the bathroom, bare-chested and clad only in what looked like scrub bottoms. She wondered if he had pilfered them from some VA hospital. She watched as he wrestled the fireplace implements back into place, muttering under his breath about Torquemada. He suddenly turned to her. "You've seen the scars now, so I don't guess I need a damn T-shirt any more."

"No…" she shook her head and climbed into the bed, wearing the silk pajamas that had become her favorites since the night he had first kissed her.

"Good. Just be aware that I usually sleep _au natural_, so this is only a slight concession!" He threw a pillow on the floor, and settled himself down in front of the fireplace, needing no cover to get warm. Alexandra nonetheless threw him a blanket from the end of the bed. He muttered a quiet thanks and lay on his back. She thought about him _au natural_ and blushed. She had never actually _seen_ a naked man. Felt one, long ago, and from what she had experienced, it hadn't exactly been a rewarding experience. More like ugly and dirty, terrifying and painful. She peered over the edge of the bed toward the fire, where James had curled himself up almost into a ball and was already asleep.

He would never be ugly, or dirty. She lay on her back again and stared up at the ceiling, her hand on her belly, the butterflies fluttering about excitedly.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. James was on his feet in an instance, something Alexandra wished she knew how he could do, considering his bad hip. Perhaps it was simply because he had been a soldier, and would thus _always_ be a soldier.

"Alexandra, dear, I hope I didn't wake you, but I just wanted to wish you and…er…James a good night."

She looked at James, who stared at her, panicked.

"It's Gram! She'll expect us to be in bed together!" she hissed. "Get in!" She held the blankets up and gestured frantically.

He moved quickly, vaulting into the bed, and after a few moments of uneasy adjusting, she was soon laying half-across him, her hand on his shoulder, her head on his chest, her right leg between his legs. She was breathing in his pleasant, woodsy cologne, his chest hair tickling her nose. She took a deep breath and felt his head drop back on the pillow, to feign sleep, but his heart was beating rather quickly for a sleeping man.

"C-Come in, Gram."

The door opened a crack and her grandmother's white-blonde head poked into the room, letting in a shaft of light from the hallway. "Are you two comfortable?" she asked softly. "Oh, I see James is asleep. Poor man – he must be exhausted." Her eyes moved about the room, and her eyebrow lifted when she saw the blanket and pillow still lying on the floor by the fire.

"Yes, he…he is very tired," Alexandra whispered. "And thank you, we're very…uh…comfortable." Not quite. She could feel his tension, even as he was attempting to appear relaxed and in deep sleep.

"Good." Cecelia smiled and slowly pulled the door shut, the room plunging into darkness once more. After a few moments, Alexandra lifted her head and looked at James. Even in the darkness of the room, she could see his eyes almost glowing. She shifted a little, suddenly needing to _move_, but not entirely sure why. But when she did move, he made a pained groaning sound.

"Please don't do that," he said. "Get off me…" He put his hands on her shoulders, to push her away, but instead they both froze. She licked her lips slowly, and could feel his eyes watching her tongue. Slowly, she shifted again, moving her leg up, and when she felt his response, she looked up into his eyes again, startled, but not at all frightened. Instead, she was intrigued. "Damn it, Alexandra…"

"M-Maybe you should…stay here," she said softly. "I don't mind. The servants might…gossip…if they…they notice that you've slept on the floor, after all, and…we really ought to keep up appearances…"

"Right. Right. But…uh…please…get off…" His voice sounded strained, and he was breathless.

She acquiesced at last, moving off and onto her side. She lay facing him, her eyes adjusting to the darkness and enjoying the sight of his profile. He was taking slow, deep breaths, his eyes closed. His eyelashes were quite long, she thought with a small smile. And she rather liked him bare-chested. That seemed, in her opinion, to be his best look ever.

* * *

Alexandra woke from a dream of being dipped into a bowl of warm cream. She sighed and wrinkled her nose as soft, crinkly hair tickled her nose, and she yawned widely before finally opening her eyes. For just a moment, she felt a tiny flash of panic, but that faded almost before it registered. Instead of pushing herself away from that warmth and safety, she looked up.

James was still asleep, and she was cuddled up against him, her arm lying limp over his shoulder, her leg thrown over his hip. Her belly was against his, and she could feel his hand in the middle of her back, and she gasped when his hand moved to her bottom. His other arm was tucked under the pillow. Carefully, she reached up and touched his cheek, his stubble tickling her fingertips as she lightly stroked him. He looked so young – years younger, in fact, while asleep. She wondered why that was.

"James," she whispered. "Wake up."

His eyes opened, and she gazed into the green, gold-flecked depths. For several moments, they stared at each other, and she blushed when he pulled her just a little closer, his hand slowly caressing her bottom. Her fingers were still stroking his cheek, slipping slowly to his jaw and finally to his mouth, softly tracing, fascinated. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she parted her lips. He started to move toward her, closing the distance between them.

A commotion outside the bedroom door caused them to jerk apart, and he rolled away, sitting for a moment with his back to her. She stared up at his scars, then flopped onto her back and sighed. She knew what the source of the noise was – her brothers were up. She heard Philip shouting, and Rowan complaining. John was lurking about somewhere, and though all three of them annoyed her in various ways as a group or on their own, she loved them and was looking forward to seeing them. Plus, she would be meeting John's new bride.

But oh, how she wished they had not been interrupted.

Getting up, she went into the bathroom to prepare herself for the day. She decided, just then, to be a little more bold. To make her husband aware that as far as she was concerned, this _was_ a real marriage, or at least could be. After all, everyone was expecting that, weren't they? She was _married_ to this man. She put on her silk robe and stepped back out into the bedroom. James had already pulled on dress pants, a gray Hugo Boss shirt, and was apparently trying to talk himself into putting on Italian shoes, but hadn't yet convinced himself of their merits.

"My brothers are up and about," she said. "They're very nice, and quite harmless, but they like to shoot."

"Shoot what?" he asked her absently, finally pulling on his shoes. He was trying not to look at her, but was still casting glances her way. She kept her back to him as she sat down at the vanity and dug around in her makeup bag for her blusher and lipstick, muttering as she searched for the right shade to match the outfit she had chosen for the day.

"Mainly birds. They deerstalk in Scotland every year, and do a bit of rabbit hunting."

"Hmph…" James stood up, testing the shoes. In the mirror, she could see that he _hated_ them. "I thought they banned hunting in England."

She shrugged. "Didn't you ever do any hunting, back in Texas?"

"Sure. Turkey and deer, mainly." He bounced in the shoes, and she had to hide a smile. "There's three kinds'a deer huntin', in Texas. There's the stand hunt, where you…ouch…damn shoes…get up in a deerstand and wait for the deer of your choice to come to the salt lick. Then there's the stalk hunt, where you stalk your deer and get eaten alive by fire ants, and last but not least is the drive hunt, where you hit your deer with a truck. That is, by the way, the most effective kind. I got an eight-point buck with a VW Bug once. It was, of course, an 'accident'. Or at least that's what I told the game warden."

"What about fishing?" She began brushing her hair, and he stood watching her, transfixed.

"Fishing?" he asked, looking confused. "Oh. Right. No, never did much fishing. Never was into being hot and covered with bugs, much less getting up at three in the morning to try and outwit a creature with a brain the size of a pea. That didn't happen until Desert Storm, and I was also being shot at. Which would have scared the fish away, I reckon."

Alexandra put her hair up into a casual twist. She began applying her lipstick, slowly. He continued to stand there, watching her, barely blinking. "Did you play sports?"

"B-baseball," he answered, still watching her put her makeup on. "I was…uh…pretty good. First base, and I had a decent…uh…RBI…or…or something. Why do you need to put on makeup?" he asked in desperation.

"Well…I always do. Just a little. I never _paint_. That would be vulgar." She blotted the lipstick with a Kleenex and smiled at him in the mirror. "I know you don't like vulgar, James."

His eyes widened, and with that, he fled. She smiled, humming softly as she went to get dressed. It was going to be an interesting day.


	18. Champagne Luncheon

TOUCHED

Chapter 18

**Rating**: **T **(for mildly scandalous situations, but nothing graphic, as I just don't _do_ graphic, and besides, whenever I try to write anything above K+, I figure it's just goofy-sounding and vaguely ridiculous. Okay, so I'm insecure.)

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

* * *

Murdock was jittery at breakfast, so much so that Face had to jab him in the ribs three times before Miles slid two kippers onto his plate and settled a boiled egg into a solid gold egg cup, right in front of him, as if he expected the frazzled pilot to know what to do with it. Throw it? Crack it against his skull? Draw a face on it and talk to it? He stared down in horror at the kippers, which were staring up at him with one eye each. _Nothing that still has a face_. He put his napkin over them and winced.

"What's a salt cellar?" Hannibal whispered to B.A., who was staring down at his kippers with an expression of pure, undiluted disgust.

"I don't know, but who the hell eats fish for breakfast?"

"Uh…fishermen? Captain Gordon comes immediately to mind…you know…_Trust the Gordon's Fisherman_…or is it Fisher_men_? I never knew." Hannibal's attempt at jocularity only got him appalled stares.

"Shut up!" Face hissed at Hannibal. A food fight seemed to be in the offing. Arguments regularly broke out between the men at meals, particularly if Murdock wasn't doing the cooking (they were usually too nervous to fight when he was). One Thanksgiving, Hannibal had started in on a lengthy toast that had begun with a speech about how grateful they should be to be Americans and had finally ended with a (rather drunk by then) Colonel thanking God for Captain Kangaroo and Mr Green Jeans. No one had ever admitted to having thrown the first handful of mashed potatoes at their CO, but a free-for-all had started after that. Food was generally not supposed to be eaten from off a wall, but it had been a good meal all around. Messy, but good.

"Don't you tell me to shut up!" Hannibal hissed back. "Everybody behave! We're in England, where they have manners…I think. Bad food, yes, but they do have _manners_! Maybe not good enough manners to make the food _edible_, but we can't be picky now can we? Dig in."

"Into _what_?" B.A. snarled. "I'm starvin'. What was that stuff we had last night?"

"Yorkshire pudding," Murdock said wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose, between his eyes. It had not been a happy meal for him, either.

"Didn't look like no damn puddin' to me," B.A. grouched. "Looked like over-cooked roast and potatoes, with the worst damn gravy I've tasted since Fort Bragg. And I ain't eatin' no damn fish for breakfast." He glared at Murdock, wishing the crazy fool would get up and go fix some scrambled eggs. He might be a nutjob, but at least the pilot could _cook._

The Earl of Eddington and his new bride were late for breakfast, and as such the rest of the family had not come in yet. Meals were, apparently, still attended by rank, with everyone filing in and being seated according to the _Table of Precedence_. The A-Team, however, had been allowed in early, as they were outside of any kind of rankings set by Debrett's _Peerage & Landed Gentry_. The four men were thus alone in the huge dining room, being stared down at by portraits of various Graham ancestors.

Alexandra had gone for a morning ride, which unsettled Murdock a great deal – he worried she might fall and hurt herself. Nick was apparently with his great-grandmother, doing God knew what but probably having a ball. The Honourable Philip and the Honourable Rowan Graham were somewhere on the estate shooting things – pheasants, possibly, or maybe peasants. Thus, the four men were left to their own devices, and the Dowager Countess had ordered that they be served a full English breakfast.

"I've never heard the word 'damn' used so many times in one sentence," Murdock said. "Not since my explosives incident at Ford Hood, anyway. Hey, Niles…"

"Miles, sir." The butler sidled up to Murdock's side, and the pilot was startled to be almost nose-to-nose with him while seated. "Yes?"

"Uh…scrambled eggs, please. With some butter in 'em. And…er…English muffins? Y'all got some'a them, right?"

Miles paused, considering. "I'll see to it, sir."

"And strong black coffee. And some orange juice, please. Tell the Countess we appreciate the effort, but we just don't…do _fish_ in the morning," Hannibal said, trying to avoid giving offense.

"Or piles of jiggling, congealed grease, either," B.A. snapped, which earned him a glare from their CO.

"Very good, sir," Miles nodded and left the room. A few moments later, two servants appeared and removed the untouched plates. The men sat in silence, drumming their fingers and looking nervously at the portraits on the walls.

"I swear that one's _watchin'_ me," Face finally said, tugging at his collar and indicating a portrait of the 2nd Earl of Eddington. He was wearing an Armani suit, and didn't like to admit that Murdock actually looked better than he did. Hugo Boss _did_ work for the captain, but he noted that Murdock looked weary.

"You're just getting paranoid, Lieutenant," Hannibal said. "Calm down."

"Y'all are leavin' this afternoon?" Murdock asked mildly. For some reason, the portraits weren't bothering him as much any more. He touched the egg, wondering if it was hard-boiled or soft-boiled. If it was soft-boiled, why did they think he'd want to eat its contents? It would be like eating a slug.

"Yeah. Headin' back to London. The rooms we booked at the Savoy are the best they have, and are costing Collingwood nine hundred pounds a night. By my estimation, at nine hundred a night for fourteen nights, that'll be twenty-thousand six-hundred pounds – that's sixty-three hundred tons!" Hannibal grinned at his own joke, and the other men snickered.

He was looking forward to this vacation, though frankly he would have preferred to be back in northern California. In fact, he was thinking seriously of calling Katherine and telling her to fly out to London to join him. That would certainly shock the boys – they probably all figured he was more interested in planning wild escapades to romance, but if it all came down to it, he'd pick Katherine over a gun battle any day.

He studied Murdock, smiling a little. The Captain had it _bad_. And why not? Alexandra was a beautiful, funny, warm-hearted and kind woman who seemed to have the right sort of mettle to deal with him, even if she was also pretty damaged herself. He knew that any woman who took on any member of his team – himself included – would have to be pretty special, and tough to boot. Face had said she was tough, and he was right. Alexandra Graham was strong-minded, but not _hard_. In fact, Hannibal liked her gentleness, and her good sense and her goofy, kooky ways. Plus, from what Face had told him, she was a fun drunk.

The redone breakfasts arrived, and each man was presented with scrambled eggs, English muffins, butter, scones, a pot of coffee that could take the chrome off a trailer hitch, along with a pitcher of orange juice. They all tucked into their meals, bickering back and forth as always. Murdock deemed the eggs presentable, and was touched when B.A. grumbled that he still preferred 'that crazy fool's cookin'.' As they finished up and discussed the importance of staying on the wrong side of the road as they returned to London, the Earl of Eddington and his wife appeared in the doorway.

"So you're my new brother-in-law, eh?" Eddington came around to Murdock and shook his hand, causing the captain to cough a spray of muffin crumbs. "Bloody good show, Alix finally marrying again, and you don't look anything like the first one, thank God. Bloody good show, indeed! And these gentlemen are?"

"Uh…er…Hannibal Smith, Bosco Baracus and Templeton Peck."

"Hm…a legendary general, a brand of chocolate syrup…and a fictional rat!" John cackled as he pulled a chair out for his wife and flapped about her as she sat down, clearly concerned for her comfort and softly asking if she'd like a pillow for her back. After seeing to her comfort, he took a seat himself and cracked the egg in his cup. Murdock watched this with interest, and looked at the egg that still stood in his cup. No…he decided to pass on it just the same.

"That would just about sum it up, yes," Murdock finally nodded and drank down the rest of his coffee, wincing as it burned its way down his throat. He grinned at Face, who was used to it, and could tell the Earl was only kidding. "'specially the rat."

Peck only rolled his eyes. He hadn't picked out the name, after all. Some nun with a sense of humor had, most likely. He liked to imagine that his mother, whoever she was, hadn't been that cruel.

"And your name is James Murdock. The only one with a normal name, eh?" Eddington sat down beside his wife, kissing her cheek. She was a pretty, shapely woman with the beginnings of a baby bump.

"I am the reigning king of normal, ain't I, B.A.?" Murdock grinned at Bosco, who glared at him and finished his own coffee.

"An American, to. Alix tells me you're from the great state of Texas. I've always wanted to go to Texas. Is it all desert?" Eddington accepted a plate of kippers from Miles, but used his body to block the sight of them from his wife, who from the way she turned a pale shade of green, had no desire to even look at food.

"No. There's…uh…woods in the east, flat coastline in the south, hills in the middle, prairie up north, and some desert out west, and some mountains. Plus we have malls. We've even got some lawyers and stuff. Granted, we all just came out of the caves a couple generations back."

Eddington laughed. "Aye, he's all right, isn't he, darling?" He looked at his wife. "This is India, my wife, of course – sorry, darling, for not introducing you properly. She's four months pregnant, poor thing, and can't stand to look at food right now. Can't you try to eat something, baby?"

She didn't look offended, but instead only seemed mildly amused in her greenish state. "I'm really not hungry. The orange juice is fine. Maybe later today I'll try to eat a crisp or two. Unsalted, please, and then it's Lamaze class this afternoon. They'll be showing that film – _The Miracle of Life_ – that I am fully convinced had to have involved a great deal of drinking to film." She had a Manchester accent that reminded Murdock of Daphne Moon from _Frasier._ "Are you all joining the guns this morning?"

"The whats?" Face said, still studying India with interest. He couldn't help taking a good look at a pretty woman, and she was _very_ pretty, with a touch of class about her. She had creamy skin, dark chestnut hair, and sparkling blue eyes.

India managed a weary smile. "The guns. The gentlemen are all shooting. Not birds – skeet, right now. Trap shooting and the like. Rowan and Philip are out there, and John will be joining them after breakfast."

"Eh…never was exactly a crack shot," Face admitted. He looked at Murdock, who was the marksman of the group, though only passably so. His vision was just so good that he hit his mark more often than not. "_James_ here might want to join in on the fun."

Murdock shook his head. He had no interest in shooting anything. "No thanks. Is Alexandra back yet?"

"I believe so. She might be still be at the stables, though," John informed him.

Murdock got up and started out the door, and Face, grinning, just couldn't resist. "Say hello to Lady Chatterly for me, James!"

* * *

Alexandra was currying her favorite horse, a beautiful, blaze-faced chestnut mare named Perdita. She had enjoyed her ride immensely – it had been the first she'd taken in over four years, and she knew she'd be stiff for days, but oh, it had been worth it.

She looked down at her riding outfit – black riding jacket and tan jodhpurs, with high boots – and thought that it was gratifying to see that it still fit, after all these years. She had removed her velvet-covered helmet and let her hair down, shaking it loose as she talked to the mare and fed her sugar cubes. "Got a nice little gallop 'round the place, hm, Perdy?" she asked the mare. She stroked the mare's neck and laughed. The smell of horses and leather and hay were a heady combination, and she was glad to be out in the open country air for first time in what seemed like forever. Up until now, she hadn't realized how much she loved the Cornish coast and Kedlington.

After seeing to it that the mare was properly cooled out and had some clean water, Alexandra pulled her hair back into a ponytail and turned around, to bump right into her husband's chest. "Oh!"

"Took me forever to find this damn place," he said, looking vaguely grumpy. "I got blindly, hopelessly lost at one point and thought I'd have to have ask Bertha Rochester for directions. I'm better at navigation while airborne."

She giggled. "She lives in the _west_ wing, James – surely you heard her laughing last night," she said. "Did you have a nice breakfast?"

"Yeah, once we sent away the kippers." He looked at the mare, and finally stroked her nose. The mare tried to chew the buttons off his cuff and he pulled away.

"Would you like a ride?" she asked him. He stared at her, eyes wide, then swallowed.

"Uh…it's been a while."

"How long?" she asked, stepping closer.

"E-eight years," he answered, lowering his voice.

"Oh. Are you any good at…at riding?"

"I've been told that I am."

They stared at each other, as dust motes floated around their heads in the light pouring in through the stable windows. Horses stomped their feet and snuffled, but they didn't hear them. He took a deep breath, and started to say something, but Alexandra put her finger to his lips. "Shh…I take it we aren't talking about horseback riding, Captain?" she asked him softly, and gasped when his mouth finally claimed hers. He pushed her gently against the door of Perdita's stall, and the mare made a surprised squealing sound before ducking into her loose box, appalled by their behavior.

Alexandra wound her arms around his neck, sighing into his mouth and surrendering eagerly when he demanded entry. She moaned when she felt his hand moving to undo the buttons of her jacket, only dropping her arms to her sides long enough for it to slip to the floor, and he pulled her shirttail out as her arms wreathed back around his neck. For a moment, she froze, feeling a rush of panic, but when he pulled back and looked at her, she knew there was nothing to fear, and moved back into his arms and his hungry kiss.

She gasped when he undid the buttons of her blouse, and pushed it open. Alexandra squealed and pulled him down to her when he pushed her against the stall door again, kissing her until her knees were so weak she wondered how she was staying on her feet. Alexandra let him pull her down the length of the stable aisle and into an empty box, clanging the door shut behind him.

He pulled her to him, and she began to frantically undo the buttons of his shirt, finally getting frustrated and just tearing it open. She touched him, tentatively at first, but lost any semblance of shyness when he cupped her breast through the simple cotton of her bra and bent to kiss its inner curve before straightening to stare at her, waiting. To answer his question, Alexandra laid a soft kiss on a scar above his heart, and pulled back to gauge his reaction, and she was pleased to see him smile at her and lift her hand to his mouth, gently kissing her palm. She smiled back, blushing, and he lowered her gently into the piled straw and brushed his knuckles against her bared belly, making the butterflies flutter and her heart pound so hard she couldn't think. She didn't want to think. He was kissing her again, and positioning his body over hers, using his knee to gently separate her legs…

"Alexandra!"

"Shit!" James scrambled to his feet, three buttons on the $85 dollar shirt missing. Alexandra lay there, leaning back against her elbows, and struggled to remember where they even were.

"Alexandra! Where's my big sister! Gram told me you were somewhere about. Where are you, you saucy little wench? Come out, come out, wherever you are! Olly olly oxenfree!" He even whistled, as though he were calling a dog.

She dropped her head back into the straw and groaned as he recognized her brother Rowan's voice. Bloody rotten timing he had, she thought as she watched James try to pull himself back together. Hadn't the little twerp arrived a month early, in fact, and caused utter chaos by forcing poor Nicole to go into labor while enjoying a production of _La Boheme _in London – the whole bloody opera had had to stop so the EMT's could get her out of the box seat and onto a stretcher. All while the poor woman was wearing a black velvet dress and the Eddington tiara (the Queen had been present), complaining good-naturedly that she looked like an awning out on the town, but was clearly not fated to see that opera. Rowan had made the _London Times_ again, later, after he'd broken into a girls' school locker and taken pictures from inside a hamper.

And I'm apparently not fated to have sex with my husband, Alexandra fumed as she struggled to redo her buttons. James had vanished, and she thought he had fled for the hills, panicked (and she wouldn't blame him a bit for that, what with now having to meet the rest of her family!), but he suddenly reappeared at the door, holding her riding jacket. She was startled when James pulled her roughly to him again and kissed her fiercely, and she melted against him when he started to nibble on her lower lip. "They-they're co-coming…" she whimpered helplessly against his mouth.

He finally released her, reluctantly, then practically drove her mad by insisting on helping her tuck her blouse back in, and back into the jacket, all while stealing mind-melting kisses. She could sort of hear a pair of booted feet crunching across the stable yards, and Philip joining in the shouting of her name. When her two younger brothers appeared in the wide stable doors, however, she and James were both standing a few feet apart, looking perfectly respectable and serene, except that she had hay in her hair, and his shirt was buttoned up crookedly. He was also holding her riding helmet kind of _low_, and his cheeks were as pink as her own. When she hazarded a look at James, and saw his mussed hair and the uneven shirt, she had to pinch herself in the leg to keep from giggling.

"James…my…my brothers, Rowan and…and Philip."

The two young men – Rowan barely twenty, Philip only seventeen – stared at them both for a moment before their faces creased into a wide grins.

"So…working on that honeymoon baby, I see!" Rowan snickered.

* * *

Lunch was, to Murdock, an agony. He and Alexandra were seated next to each other at the table – set up outside on the terrace, under a canopy – and every time their hands or knees accidentally touched, they would both freeze, sometimes with their forks suspended in mid-air, their food forgotten. Had he been a more secure man, or at least uninhibited when it came to that kind of thing, he would have said to hell with everybody around them and threw her on that table and shown the swans gliding across the decorative pond a thing or two.

But he did have inhibitions. Well…_some_. He still had some old fashioned church-influenced views on the matter. Not that he had had many qualms about taking the proverbial plunge with Consuelo at eighteen, shortly after he moved to Austin and started thinking about what direction he wanted to take with his life. She had taught him all about pleasure, and how to please a woman, and had also taught him how to make great chili and sopapillas. After Consuelo had been Johanna, a German _fraulein _with not a single inhibition that he'd been able to recognize, to the point of being willing to do it in public places (he hadn't been, though).

Then it had been a long dry spell before Colleen…of course, he had been in and out of mental institutions before he'd hooked up with _her_. Twice, in fact. First in Mannheim, then two years later in Iraq, with them even sneaking into one of Saddam Hussein's emptied-out palaces, to spend the next two days in a row in bed. He had gotten a sharp reprimand from Hannibal about that, but he hadn't cared a bit. In fact, he had been in a pretty good mood for several weeks after that, until Colleen started making noises about a psychiatry specialist she knew in Vienna, and how he could really do wonders for 'poor James'…

Alexandra was taking a sip of champagne, but he snapped to attention and grabbed the glass from her. "_No_."

"Oh!" She gave him a mock glare. "But I'm thirsty!" she giggled, and then slowly licked her lips and pouted prettily. His eyes followed her tongue, remembering her sweet, unschooled kisses, and took a deep breath before whispering in her ear.

"I'd rather have you sober. Drink water, baby."

"You mean you…want me…uh…"

"Wide awake. With the lights on." He lightly tapped her forehead, but he wasn't talking about _those_ lights.

Her brow wrinkled, and he realized that she was only slightly more of an amateur at this than he was, and she watched him toss back the champagne. The stuff bubbled and fizzed down his throat, and he put the glass down, trying to think of some plan where he could get her back into the castle and into that bed before being interrupted _again_. When Niles – or was it Miles? – passed by, he asked for another glass of champagne.

* * *

Hannibal, B.A. and Face were all trying to figure out how to escape the clutches of Lady Eddington's hospitality. They had been fed almost nonstop since arriving at the castle, and were beginning to mutter to each other about the very real dangers of English pastries. "Personally," Face said, as they were presented with another pile of scones, "I think she's stuffing us like Christmas gooses…er…geese…gimme another one'a them scones, dammit…"

"Yeah, but it's the only stuff 'round here that's edible," B.A. pointed out. "Otherwise, we'd have to chew on the furniture."

"I don't think we can do that," Hannibal pointed out. "The writing desk in my bedroom back there is four hundred years old and once belonged to King George I." He was leaning back in his chair, finishing off the rest of his jam-stuffed pastries. Raspberry had become his favorite, but he was already starting to expand.

They looked down the length of the table, past Murdock and Alexandra, who were concentrating on nobody but each other, and spied her three brothers talking amongst themselves. Finally, the Earl of Eddington stood up and raised his champagne glass. "To our dear sister, Alexandra, and her new husband the Honorable Captain James Murdock of the United States Army Airborne Rangers. May the two of you produce many, many rambunctious children, because if Gram doesn't get more grandchildren and great-grandchildren, I think she may start buying them from Africa, like Angelina Jolie and Madonna."

"Nutjobs, the lot of em," Face said, shaking his head. "Murdock'll fit right in. Though I think he'd rather fit right in with Zegzalig…Zekalig…Xezal…_whatsername_…alone." He giggled and hiccuped, realizing the champagne he'd been drinking was starting to affect his speech a little. "Oooh…st'awberries!" he crowed as a plate of the delicious fruit was put in front of him. He snatched one and ate it happily, washing it down with another glass of champagne. "Hey, Murdock, don' forget the whipped cream! " He collapsed into helpless giggles and knocked himself over into B.A., who shoved him away.

"You're gettin' to be crazier than Murdock!" B.A. hissed.

"I am not crazy, Sergeant, I am merely _drunk_," Face said with wounded dignity. "I have not knocked over the fishtank yet, tank you…hee!…did you hear what I said? I said 'tank you'. Is that a Freudian slip or somethin'? I was gonna say 'thank you', but I said 'tank you'. Get it? Ha!" He suddenly clutched his head and leaned on his elbows. "Oh God, I wish I was dead…I'm gonna have the mother of all hangovers tomorrow…yo, Niles, gimme 'nother glass of that bubbly!"

"Miles, sir," the little butler said with a warm smile, refilling the glass and moving on, apparently accustomed to drunk, giggling people at the table.

"But you have to admit, they're a _nice_ bunch of nutjobs," Hannibal pointed out, lighting a cigar and rolling his eyes at the still giggling Lieutenant. He had found Philip and Rowan to be good-natured, self-absorbed young men who only needed a year or two in the Royal Marines to grow up and be _men_, though he doubted they'd be anything as tough or brave as the boys he commanded. "And I'll be damned if I'll do anything…_anything_…to prevent him from being happy. And he's happy with her, I think, and when they came up here for lunch, she looked like somebody had just soul-kissed her heart. Yeah…yeah, she's nuts about him, too."

B.A. snorted. He wasn't sure how he felt about this whole deal. He also didn't like the idea of going back to America without Murdock, or the idea that he was going to miss that crazy fool, but he knew he would. He leaned forward and watched as Alexandra whispered something to the captain, who murmured something back and made her laugh. Yeah…well…he deserved to be happy. Even crazy fools deserved _that_ much.


	19. Urban Legends

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 19

**Rating**: T

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

Note: This chapter is relatively short, but I hope it's fairly...uh...satisfactory. More Drama and Intrigue coming soon. I just hope I have time to write it the next couple of chapters. Rest of the week will be pretty busy in Real Life.

* * *

"James, Alexandra…Nick and I are going to sit up late and watch movies and pig out on popcorn and chocolate…would you two care to join us?"

"Are you _joking_?" James gasped at Cecelia before running an agitated had through his hair. He already looked pop-eyed and completely frazzled. Since lunchtime, he had been corralled into badminton, croquet (at one point threatening to bonk Philip and Rowan over theirs head with a mallet), a 1000-piece puzzle of the Great Wall of China (as yet uncompleted, having been started sometime during the early days of John Major's Government), a round of charades (he had won by agitatedly imitating Madame Bovary – pantomiming ovaries and a madame, complete with come-hither look, cigarette holder and a roll of the hips that made Cecelia put her hands over Nick's eyes and Alexandra shriek the right answer), and last but not least, a game of hide & go seek in the little boxwood maze on the west end of the castle.

That had been, to Alexandra's mind, the best part of the day since she and her husband had had their make-out session in the stables. James had finally burst _through_ one of the hedge walls of the maze and practically tackled her, dragging her to a (they thought) secluded spot for more passionate kisses and undone buttons. Unfortunately, one of the maids discovered them and her scream had alerted all the others to their whereabouts. James's frustrated shouting in German had also ruined any chances of them being the last ones found.

Now, he was bouncing on his feet and looking like he was going to explode. She was feeling rather explosive herself, and she could only barely manage a smile at her grandmother, instead of stomping her foot and demanding that she be taken upstairs and _taken_, dammit.

"Uh…I think…that you and Nick can enjoy the movie all by yourselves tonight."

"All right," Cecelia said, looking from Alexandra to James and back again, her eyebrows lifting. "Oh. Of course. Right. Well, Nick, say good-night to your Mummy and Papa and we'll pop in the DVD…if Miles or I can figure out how. Good heavens, whatever happened to those lovely, easy-to-operate VHS tapes? And vinyl records. Does anybody even _make _vinyl records any more…I mean, really, I much prefer the scratch and hiss of vinyl when I listen to my dear Sinatra."

"What's vinyl, Gran?" Nick asked.

"I'm afraid they stopped making it during the last Ice Age," Cecelia laughed. "Now it's MP3 players and iPods and soon it'll be scratch and sniff computers and every other kind of doo-dad one can imagine. Ah…to be young."

Alexandra, in spite of James's expression of _horror_, insisted on getting her son ready for bed by herself. She took him up to his room and helped him into his pajamas (he was at the point where he needed little help, but she was still trying to prolong that little ritual just the same) and made him promise to say his prayers before he went to sleep.

"Nick…do you like James?" Alexandra asked, as she walked him back downstairs, his warm little hand in hers.

"Yes, he's fun, and he's nice. I like him even more than I do Gram. But don't tell her that. She wouldn't like it, I don't think."

Alexandra laughed. "I don' think she would mind. Would you like it if he stayed with us…forever?"

"Yeah!" The boy looked up at his mother, smiling at her with his whole face. "But promise me you and James won't have any baby _girls_!"

"Well…darling, I can't promise _that_," she said, blushing. "And from I remember of biology classes, the blame will have to be placed on James, so far as that goes, if we have any girls. But…I think we can try until we do get a little brother for you some day. How 'bout that? And who knows, the first one might be a boy anyway. We may only have boys, period. But you might have to resign yourself to a girl or two along the way."

"Okay," Nick shrugged, bouncing down the ancient wooden stairway and into the hall. "But I won't play with the girls! They won't know what to do with my Boofinger."

"Beaufighter, sweetie," Alexandra corrected gently, and led Nick back into the lounge. James was seated on the couch with her grandmother, looking through a book of photographs.

"Oh, no…" Alexandra whispered under her breath. "Not the picture album!"

"Baby, these pictures are _amazing_!" he told her. "This naked one in particular." His waggled his eyebrows at her.

"Naked?" She went around to the back of the couch to look down at the picture, and gave him a light cuff on the shoulder. "I was four!"

"Yeah, but you _were_ naked!" He snickered helplessly and Cecelia jabbed him in the arm. When he looked up at his wife, however, she had a feeling he was more interested in Alexandra naked at twenty-eight.

"Behave," she scolded.

"I will. Tomorrow." He clapped the photo album shut and grinned at Cecelia. "Thanks, Your Countess-ship, but Alexandra and I are…uh…really tired. G'night, Nick. Be good and…er…enjoy your movie."

"You're going to bed now? But me and Gran are gonna watch _Ratatouille_." He held up the DVD box to them, and James rubbed his face. "C'mon and watch it with us!"

"Um…uh…well…we…" Alexandra started, but Cecelia cut her off.

"Your parents are very tired, sweetheart," the Countess explained patiently. "Leave them be. And later, if you need anything during the night, come wake _me_."

* * *

She was trembling a little, not sure what James would think of her purchase at Victoria's Secret. It had taken all her nerve to just _buy_ the thing, much less even try it on. But the silk and lace of the short, toga-style negligee definitely did a lot for her curves, and even at that time, she had told herself that one day, she might have use for it. Of course, then, she had told herself that it would cool and comfortable to wear on hot nights. She had convinced herself that the purchase was more practical than anything else. Fat chance of that, she thought with a nervous giggle. If things worked out as they should, tonight, she wouldn't be wearing it for long anyway. The thought of that made her giggle again, from a combination of nervousness and excitement. Good heavens, she thought. Less than two weeks ago, I would never have even _imagined_ doing this! Ever!

Alexandra knew she had probably annoyed James just a little by insisting on changing in the bathroom. When he had asked if she'd like for him to help, she had turned pink and told him to just wait. "I've been waitin' long enough, dammit!" had been his response. But she had been insistent, and he had relented, albeit reluctantly. Now, she was staring at the bathroom door, the butterflies in her belly dancing about rather drunkenly. Finally, screwing up all her courage, she opened the door and stepped out. The lights in the room were still on, and she recalled what he'd said at lunch: that he wanted her wide-awake, with the lights on.

She blushed deeply when he gave her a wolf-whistle, and backed against the door. "Hi," she managed.

"C'mere, baby," he said softly. He was sitting in the chair by the writing desk, his shirt undone. A little shaky, but not at all afraid, Alexandra went to him, and stood in front of him, not entirely sure of what to do next. "Are you nervous?"

"No," she said, nodding.

He laughed and gently pulled her down into his arms, so that she was straddling his hips. Her blush got pinker when he maneuvered her into position, so that she could feel his desire. "Oh…" she whispered. "That's…"

"Yeah." He rubbed the silk of the negligee between his fingers, and smiled. "Put your arms on my shoulders." She obeyed him, and couldn't keep from moaning as he kissed the base of her neck and slipped his arms around her, cupping her bottom and pulling her hips up. She gasped when he suddenly picked her up and carried her to the bed, and started giggling, feeling light-headed, as he stretched her out on the blanket.

"Something funny?" he asked her, before moving over her and kissing her deeply. She sighed and wound her arms around his neck, sliding her hands under his shirt to caress his shoulders. She whimpered when he suddenly released her, and she looked up him at him cautiously, thinking for a moment that he had changed his mind. But he hadn't – he had pulled his shirt off and was undoing his trousers.

"Oh…" Her eyes widened, and she knew she was probably bright red by now. "I…"

"Shh…" He lay down beside her, and pulled her to him. He was undoing the tiny buttons on the back of the negligee, getting rid of the garment little by little, inch by inch, until finally she lifted her hips and the little toga landed on the floor by the bed. "Beautiful woman."

"You…you think so?"

"I know so. So you're not nervous, are you baby?"

She finally nodded. "I…yes, I am. A little."

"Remember what I told you, first time we met, back in Hong Kong? That I'd never let any harm befall you?"

She could only nod, unable to speak any more. What he was doing to her now had rendered her speechless.

* * *

"Do people die from this?" she asked, in an exhausted little voice, some time during the night. The lights were still on, so she couldn't quite gauge what time it was.

"From what?"

"From…you know…th-_that_…"

"Well, they do call it _la petite morte. _But y'know, I read somewhere, once…some kind of urban legend…oh, yeah, that's good, baby…that this couple got married but never did it at all for years and years, until finally one day they just decided to go ahead and…mm…finally play some slap an' tickle, and they both had heart attacks."

"_Really_? I couldn't have waited that long! It's a wonder I waited this long!"

"Well, it was just an urban legend. But I also read somewhere that some scientists at Harvard – who apparently had a lot of time on their hands – did this experiment with a rat, where if the rat hit one button, it would get food, but if it hit another button, it would get a kind of…er…_stimulation_…that would make it have an orgasm."

"So what happened?"

"Rat starved to death, but he was _happy_. C'mere, baby, and push my button."

"Oh, you mean _that_ button?"

His eyes darkened, and she giggled. "Yeah…that one."

* * *

"You turned the lights off," Alexandra said, sitting up and watching Murdock climb back into bed. He grinned at her, and gave her a sleepy kiss. It was almost dawn – through the window, he could see the first streaks of sunlight coming up over the horizon. "Does that mean…mean that you're finished?" She yawned and stretched like a cat, arching her back, momentarily distracting him.

"For the next coupla hours, I think."

"Oh…" She sighed happily, yawned again, and curled up beside him, her head on his chest, her fingertips tracing over the ugly scar on his shoulder. During the night, she had set about memorizing each and every one of them before declaring fervently that he was beautiful. He still didn't quite get that, but he knew when not to argue with his wife.

"Did I…uh…hurt you?" he asked her. She looked up at him. "I mean…the first time…you were…a little…uh…I mean, you…"

"Oh…" She blushed prettily – he had never known a woman like this before. Her passionate nature had revealed itself to him last night – and all through the night – but she still blushed. Amazing. She was amazing. Breathtaking, in fact. Then again, he knew he blushed quite a bit, too. Hell, he was stammering. "It has been four years…and I had a child. And it didn't hurt. Not at all. It was…it was wonderful. Amazing."

"Mm…" He lazily twisted a curl of her dark hair around his fingers, and she put her head down again. Her breathing slowed, and soon she was sleeping. He gave her a gentle hug and settled in for a nap. He had no need for breakfast – he decided then that they might not make an appearance downstairs until sometime close to supper.


	20. Moonlight and Cashews

**TOUCHED**

Part 20

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

Some deep stuff, a bit of hanky panky and odd thoughts about legumes. At least it seemed deep while I was writing it. I was listening to music. One has to concentrate to write 'deep' while listening to 'Play That Funky Music, White Boy' and the Muppets' version of 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. Next chapter will be the roughest one to write, as I plan a twist. But anyway...harrowing tales of the past, 'n stuff.

* * *

"I suppose we should go ahead and go downstairs and eat," Alexandra said, still lying in the bed and watching as her husband casually pulled on his jeans and buttoned them. She had finally stopped blushing about that, at least. She finally swung her legs out of the bed and stood, and caught his cocky grin, but she didn't even attempt to cover herself. Instead, she raised her arms and caught her hair up into a knot, pinning it with a barrette.

"I am kinda hungry," he told her, slipping one arm around her waist and pulling her close for a slow, deep kiss.

"You're a sex fiend," she said, slapping his hand away but melting when he kissed her again. "Mm…and thank God for that."

"You were yelling His name a lot a while ago," he said smartly before releasing her and giving her a smack on the fanny.

"Oh! You scoundrel!" She laughed and dashed away from him to search of something to wear. "You know, I've never walked around naked before." She found one of James's T-shirts (lime green, with a picture of Shrek and Fiona) and put it on, and modeled it for him. "How does this look?" she asked with a coquettish pose.

"Looks better on you than it ever did on me," he grinned at her. He pulled on plain white T-shirt and pondered putting on shoes, then decided against it. "But you still looked better about half an hour ago."

"Half an hour ago, I was rid-…oh…" She only pinked a little. "Well…I was having a rather delightful time." Alexandra found a pair of sweatpants and pulled them on, trying to look as dignified as possible. But her husband's smoldering look made that impossible. She moved into his arms again and kissed him, wreathing her arms around his neck, and rested her head against his chest.

"We should eat. We have a busy night ahead of us, y'know," he told her, reluctantly letting go of her.

"Oh? Are we going somewhere?"

"Yeah. The stables. I wanna finish what we started yesterday morning. But first…food!"

* * *

"Oh, God…that's…" She collapsed against his chest and sighed, still trembling. "…so good…"

"Be quiet. You'll scare the horses."

Alexandra giggled and slowly moved onto her side, stretching out in the hay beside Murdock, who yawned.

"Am I boring you?" she asked.

"Not at all. Just…tired." He was tired. The best kind of tired he'd ever experienced, actually. He looked at her, and she smiled at him. In all his fantasies, nothing came close to _this_. That in itself was a little frightening for him – of all the people in the world, he would never have imagined somebody like her even taking a second look at somebody like him, and even more, she actually seemed to _like_ him. _Bizarre_. Yet here she was – lying barely dressed beside him in a box stall. She touched his shoulder, and he noticed that she was staring at him.

"What?"

"James…tell me about yourself."

There it was. She wanted to know. He looked up at the rafters above, and saw a pair of pigeons disputing over territory. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," she said. "Not because I think I can fix everything. I can't. But all these scars…they didn't just _happen_, and I think I ought to know. I want to know."

"No…no, they didn't just happen, and yeah, I guess you should." He sat up, fighting off the nightmare. "Okay. Well…might as well start at the beginning, huh? My mother died when I was ten, and right after the funeral, some guy and his wife came along, claimin' they were relatives and took me away."

"Were they…relatives?"

"The guy was kin to us somehow, I think. Distantly. Not that anybody was gonna claim him, and his wife was…Countess Batthory reborn, lemme tell ya. Didn't give a damn 'bout nobody." He brushed a piece of hay out of his hair and grabbed his shirt.

"So they…were…abusive…" she said softly, but her gaze was steady.

"Listen, I don't like talkin' about it. It's…I spent four years with 'em, and the whole time, I was wonderin' what I'd done to have deserved that, and how come my grandparents didn't come an' get me." He shook his head. "'Course, I didn't know they were travelin' all over Texas, tryin' to find me, but they were as poor as snakes, so progress was slow, what with the police not havin' a clue where I was. But I was ten years old – a ten-year old doesn't consider those things, y'know? I just knew I was alone and I didn't know why."

"Why did they take you?"

He shrugged. "They never said. I guess they just liked havin' somebody they could push around. So they locked me up with the cats. Seemed like hundreds of damn cats. I don't hate cats – I'm sure not fond of 'em - but I sure do hate the smell of ammonia…they didn't put forth much _effort_ with regard to cleanin' up. It took somebody from the local ASPCA to notice – they just happened by 'cause they saw a bunch'a cats everywhere, and next thing I know, there's cops everywhere and the Beasts are bein' hauled off the prison."

"Did they hurt you…aside from the…the cats?" she asked, in a soft whisper.

Murdock shrugged. He hadn't even been able to talk to the psychiatrists back at the VA about _that_. "They were not…uh…very…humane…there were…was…beatings, yeah, and…" He looked at her, hoping he wouldn't see tears in her eyes, or pity. But she was just sitting there, watching him, listening. "My grandparents came and got me, and they were good to me. Real good – took me back to Llano and they had enough presence of mind to put me into…you know…counseling…but…er…the damage had been done, I guess. I graduated from school and went to Austin, and joined the Army almost on a whim. Figured I could do something useful with my life, y'know? They did all these tests on me, and I already knew how to fly – learned from an uncle who had a crop duster – and so they threw me into the Airborne Rangers and made me do all these tests an' stuff, and said I had an IQ of two-sixty-five and next thing I knew, I was in officer training. Good God, that was scary, and not too long after I got out of that, I had a…you know…breakdown."

"Are your grandparents still alive?"

"No. Grandpa died not long after I graduated from high school, and Granny died about two weeks before I had the first…episode. That probably set it off."

She moved to him, and slowly slipped her arms around his shoulders. He drew in his breath and forced himself to go on.

"So I spent a month in an Army psych hospital, and then they released me and I was sent to South Korea, and they found out I was good at languages. Snapped up one after the other. So easy – it was as if I had slots in my head for stuff like that. Slots for languages – start out simple, with Spanish, then it's French, German, Italian, Greek, Latin, Korean, Tagalog, Mandarin, Japanese…it just went on and on. They'd throw a book and some tapes into my room and say 'Learn that one', and so I would. Not like there was a lot of excitement going on there, so I gobbled 'em up. My Russian is a little shaky for some reason, but I can get by fairly well, and hell, once you learn Polish you can talk to a Montenegren. Learn Russian well enough, you can talk to a Croatian. Learn Latin, you can bluff your way through anything. Arabic was a bitch, let me tell ya, but I learned it. Proved to be useful, too, later on, when I tackled Portuguese. I even learned a few African languages – Swahili, and then I hopped over to the Scandinavian languages, and then I determined to learn Welsh and Scots Gaelic and Irish Gaelic, and so I went for Cherokee and Navajo for the hell of it, and…what?"

She was laughing, shaking her head in amazement. "How many languages do you _speak_?"

"Oh, God, hundreds. I lost count. It's like switchin' gears, y'know? I hear somebody speakin' some foreign language – and they're thinkin' I don't understand 'em – and I'm hearin' 'em say some wild stuff, and I only have to switch the gears. So the Army wasn't just usin' me for flyin' and testin' choppers and jets – I've got a big slot in my head for flyin', after all. Bigger'n the language slot. I was translatin' and listenin' in on stuff all the time, by then, and was up to second looie before I turned twenty-two. So when Desert Storm started up, off I went to the Middle East. Flew so many sorties I lost count'a that, too. Precision-bombin' – you had to be able to drop that bomb on a pin, and I got pretty good at that – blow up the target only, but not the building next door, y'know? So I did. I remember havin' to blow up train tracks that had been placed between a coupla major landmarks in Bagdad, with them thinkin' we'd never go for 'em, but they sent me in to destroy 'em, and I didn't even get _dust_ on the buildings, but the tracks were kablooied all over God's creation. Night bombings and then during the day, I was sittin' in tents with generals, translating while some Kuwaiti general or prince yammered at 'em. I can read those languages, too, mind you, so they had me readin' and translatin' all kinds of transcriptions. I started havin' trouble then. Started seein' stuff, and hearin' things, so it was off to Germany for another stay in the booby hatch."

"Sounds like you were more exhausted than anything else."

He shrugged again and began twisting a piece of straw into a knot. "I just got worse. Nightmares when I did sleep, but I usually had insomnia. Night terrors and…you know…all that. I never got dangerous, really. Only to myself. They had me on suicide watches a lot, but I never had any thought of killin' myself."

"I'm so glad to hear that," she said softly, kissing his Ranger tattoo.

"But I kept gettin' worse. Seein' and hearin' things, and talkin' to inanimate objects. But after a while, they threw me back to Iraq and put me back in a chopper, so I'm transportin' troops and pullin' 'em outta tight spots, and the bullets'd be flyin' all around me and I didn't even flinch. But I was shot down near Bagdad and got tore up pretty good, so I got send Stateside for a while. Walter Reed, then a psych hospital in North Carolina. After that, I was off and on with the Army – long periods of bein' able to cope and doin' all kinds of black ops kinds of things – classified stuff – and then I had a really bad…meltdown in Chile and got scuttled off to Mexico, an embarrassment to the Army by then. That's where Hannibal found me. I flew 'em outta Mexico in a chopper that, now that I think about it, was about as airworthy as a can of Spaghettios, but by God, I got 'em outta there."

"Face told me you flew the chopper upside down," she said, laughing softly.

He smiled for the first time in quite a while. "Yeah. I don't recommend that. Even in moments of great clarity."

"And then…?"

"Nine-eleven, of course. Off to Iraq again. I had a reputation by then – people were either terrified of me or thought I was so crazy that I was more or less harmless. I made more than a few of the bad-asses the Army managed to stuff into my chopper toss his cookies, anyway. You know – zoom in, to the rescue, and zoom out again. I was flyin' a roughed-up old Apache out of Mosul one day, and the unwashed little creeps used a rocket launcher to knock me out of the sky, and hell, I was barely up there anyway, and so I survived the crash…barely."

"And so you were captured?" she asked him, and he looked at him. He nodded. "And tortured?"

He drew in his breath again, slowly releasing the air from his lungs. "It was…it was pretty bad. Worse than the Beasts. I was able to sort of switch gears in my head, back then, when I was a kid, to get through it. But not then. Not in Mosul. When Face and Hannibal and B.A. finally found me, I was barely even alive, and…" He indicated the scars on his back. "Covered with blood and…"

Gently, her fingers touched his lips. "It's all right."

"I still have nightmares sometimes, baby. I'll have 'em now and then, for the rest of my life, I guess. They said I had PTSD from when I was fourteen. I guess the Army didn't help much, but then again, the Army didn't do the torturin', it was the enemy did that. I nearly gave up in Mosul. Didn't think I'd get out and finally started prayin', first time in years, askin' God to forgive me for all the dumb-ass things I'd done. I remembered my grandmother sayin' Christianity ain't about bein' perfect, but that it's about bein' forgiven, so I just hoped God would forgive me before I finally wasn't able to keep goin' and stay alive. But then they all came for me, so I figured maybe God had forgiven me, and was givin' me another shot. I remember Face shootin' the leader of that little group right in the head. Shot 'im deader'n a hammer. It's a wonder he wasn't court-martialed over that one, but…"

"They love you so much, James," Alexandra told him gently. "I have no doubt they'd all die for you."

He laughed. "Don't say that around B.A.!"

* * *

Walking back to the castle in the moonlight, they stopped by the decorative pools, sitting down on a stone bench and splashing their feet in the water. She slipped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. "So what happened to you?" he asked her quietly.

Alexandra swallowed and looked at the water, the moon reflected on the now-still surface. "I don't guess I have any right to refuse to talk, do I?" She looked at him, and saw that he was just waiting, watching her. The intimacy they had shared, and the painful story he had just told her, had certainly knocked down what few barriers remained between them. She screwed up her courage and looked right into his eyes. "He raped me."

There was only a slight catch of his breath, but he didn't pull away from her, as she half expected. He only nodded. "Go on."

"I was a virgin, and…well, I had convinced myself, like the empty-headed nitwit I was back then – bloody hell, in many ways, I still am – that I was in love with him, and he was very handsome…very charming, and dashing, and _attentive_, but I suppose the money must have been his main motivation. But grandfather knew all about him – I know he did, as he vetted every man I ever dated. I didn't find out about that until later, but Simon had a reputation with women, and it wasn't for romance. Anyway, I thought I was in love, and I thought I'd be swept into paradise with him that night. That it would be so beautiful and romantic, but instead…I just got abuse. He liked the kinky, sick stuff…and when I wouldn't do any of them, he beat me." She took a shaky breath, not quite believing she was spilling out this story, after four years of keeping it bottled up. "Beat me senseless, until I guess I lost consciousness, and when I woke up, the bloody bastard was _asleep_, drunk on the couch. So I ran. Just ran – I was wearing nothing but a silk nightgown, but I didn't care. We were on the Isle of Wight, and it was so cold, and I had no idea where I was going, but I knew I wanted to be away from him. As far away as possible. But he woke up, and…" She looked at James and was relieved to see that he didn't look disgusted. He was just sitting there, watching her, listening. "He caught up with me, and threw me into his Jeep and off we went into the night. God, it was pitch black. No moon, no stars – I could barely see anything, and I prayed for him to die. I prayed for him to die, and he didn't see curve in the road until it was too late, and he hit a tree. I was thrown out, and he hit his head on a tree trunk. I prayed for him to die and I was so glad when he did." She wiped her eyes and was stunned when she found she was crying. "The coroner decided that however Simon died, whatever I did or didn't do was a matter of pure speculation, as there were no witnesses but me and I wasn't talking, so they could only say 'not proven', and I couldn't sit there and talk about what he'd done…not with his mother sitting there…the poor woman was widowed, and I've no doubt Simon's father did her pretty dirty, too…and I was a basket case anyway, so…I ran. I left England as soon as I was allowed to. The only good thing that came out of the whole bloody disaster was Nick."

James took her hand in his, and looked down at her wedding ring – the ring his mother had worn – and noted how it shone in the moonlight, and how perfectly it suited her. "So I guess we've both been whacked around a bit, huh?"

"Yes, I suppose so," she said with a hiccupping laugh. "Damaged goods."

"Good thing he's dead," he said softly. "'Cause I'd kill 'im myself." He looked down for a moment, and she watched him, nervously chewing on her lip until he looked at her again. "I guess we're just lucky to've found each other, huh?" He seemed to ponder something for a moment before he smiled at her.

"He's not worth killing. He's not worth anything. And I'm extremely glad we found each other." She smiled at him, blinking through her tears. "Or actually, you found me."

"Well, even a blind hog finds an acorn every now an' then."

She smacked his arm, and he grinned. "Calling me an _acorn_, Captain?"

"Well…pecan then. No, wait. I hate pecans. Only Texan alive who does, I s'pect. Cashew. Even a blind hog can find a _cashew_."

"So now I'm a cashew!" she giggled as his arm slipped around her, pulling her to him, ridding her of her clothes as he moved her down into the moist grass.

"One nut knows another, baby. So…shall I introduce you to my can of Planters?"

She screamed with laughter, but that was muffled a few moments later, and was soon replaced by sounds that startled the horses down at the stables, and likely woke most of the servants in the ancient castle rising behind them.


	21. Transfer

**TOUCHED**

Part 21

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

I hope this isn't too unrealistic. If not, just suspend reality a bit. This is fiction. In fiction, your hovercraft can be full of eels, after all. And I hope things aren't too obvious. I mean, it's a neat little twist, eh? At least I think it is.

Stop laughing back there, or I'll turn this hovercraft _around_!

**Note**: In case you're wondering what Alexandra looks like, see Justine Waddell, who is most famous for _Wives & Daughters_ (my favorite British costume drama). Oddly enough, she is also Johannesburg-born and of solid Scots blood, and she's just lovely. Shoot, I've got her in mind, so far as how the heroines look, for at least two other stories I'm smacking around at various times, but they're both my own and not based on anything else. Oh well.

Here goes. Please don't hate me for this one!

* * *

Cecelia greeted Murdock and Alexandra when they finally came downstairs for breakfast, and Nick plowed into his mother, hugging her enthusiastically. "It's like havin' a Golden Retriever – go missing for a few hours, and you have to pry 'em off ya with a crowbar," Murdock whispered in Alexandra's ear as they sat down for breakfast. She giggled and allowed her son to sit in her lap while they ate breakfast, chatting easily about everything and nothing in particular. It was only after Nick had finally been persuaded to go find Miles in order to play another game of tag that the Countess placed an envelope in front of Murdock.

He fingered it for a second, noting the return address – somewhere in London, but obviously he didn't recognize the address. He looked up at Cecelia, who nodded to Alexandra, and she looked down at the expensive embossed paper and sighed.

"Grandfather."

"Ah." He took a bite of his toast and opened the letter. "Seems you and I are invited to a formal dinner tonight at his home in…Knightsbridge?"

"Yes. He has a huge mansion there," Alexandra informed him. It looked like a lot of the wind had been taken out of her sails, and he didn't like that. He knew that eventually the old man would have to be dealt with, but he had been putting that off for the past two days, as he'd been enjoying himself with Alexandra and talking about other matters – like his own past, for one thing, and listening to her tell him about hers. They had been up all night, talking and making love, working out whatever differences remained between them. Odd, but there weren't really all that many to hammer out. He knew they weren't cut from the same cloth, but they seemed to have more in common than he had even realized. Not just miserable childhoods (or lack thereof) but they laughed at the same things, and had the same views on the Big Stuff (religion, politics, music, art…types of cheese). And the sex was _mind-blowing_. So good they were discussing what name they ought to give it, as a kind of signal for 'I'm horny, let's go upstairs' when in polite company. Not that that was the deciding factor, but hell…

Murdock scanned the invitation, and noted another piece of cotton paper (Crane, he noted with a snicker – his grandmother, no matter how poor she had been, had managed somehow to get hold of quality Crane paper for her 'correspondin', and the feel of the paper was familiar to him), addressed directly to him. He opened it and read it quickly. "I am also ordered to sit down for a private meeting with him this afternoon at his office in the City. Might as well get packed up and headed out there, then."

"Do we have to?" she said, sounding more frightened than he liked.

"Of course we do. You can't fight the dragon if you don't _go_ to the dragon, baby. C'mon. Up and at 'em."

"Do we have to take Nick? I hate to take him there. It's such a dark, gloomy place…believe me, it's no place for a child." She stood and smoothed her skirt nervously, and he took her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles.

"We won't take him. Just you an' me, baby. No worries." He stood and shoved his chair back under the table and gathered up his utensils, stacking them on his plate, and used a paper towel to clear up any spillage. Alexandra stood watching him, wondering. "Sorry. Old habit. Southerner here…we practically bus our own tables back home. My granny'd rise from the grave an' kill me if I didn't."

"Nothing to apologize for," she said with a soft smile. Cecelia watched them canoodle and finally cleared her throat, looking only mildly exasperated.

"I've not seen much of you two in the past day or so," she said, when she finally had their full attention. "I would ask what you've been doing, but I'm afraid you'd tell me, and really, no woman wants to know what a man is doing to her only granddaughter." She rose and gave them one of her warm smiles. "I will be expecting _several_ more great-grandchildren."

"We're workin' on it," Murdock informed the old woman, ignoring Alexandra's pink cheeks. "At this rate, I suspect twins are in order."

* * *

Alexandra realized that she would always get weak-kneed when she saw James in a suit. There was just something about him – not just his quirky sense of humor, or his eccentricity, or even really his shy sexiness. She finally determined that he was simply _quality_, and didn't quality look good no matter what they were wearing, in any circumstance? She thought about Emily Dickinson's poem about bees and pedigrees and laughed to herself.

He still had no idea he was an arresting sight, no matter what he was wearing, but today, Hugo Boss was helping him cut quite a fine figure. The neat, well-fitted cut of the suit did so much for his already excellent posture and his way of carrying himself, and his lean, strong physique. Of course, he looked pretty good undressed, too. She giggled as she watched him check himself in the mirror at the bottom of the stairs, adjusting his tie. "Do I look executivey, or do I look like a funeral director?"

She smoothed his collar and lapels, mainly just so she could touch him again, and stepped back to look him over, cocking her head to one side before smiling. "Very executivey. Downright presidential, Captain."

"Ah, hell, if that's the case, I should change into cargos and a T-shirt again. Look more like I'm in my natural element. Y'know, 'fore I met you back in Hong Kong, I hadn't worn a suit since my mom's funeral. Now I'm wearin' 'em nearly ever'day." He grinned at her. "And you're lookin' dead sexy, if I may say so."

"You may. I haven't shown off this much skin since…well, this morning."

"In the shower."

"And on the floor."

"And that time in that little spot in the maze…"

They both paused, remembering _that_ rather fondly – no one had disturbed them _then_. They pulled themselves out of their reveries when Nick came bouncing down the hall and into James's arms, practically climbing up the tall pilot and looking at him critically. He was wearing James's red Airborne hat. "You know, kid, I think I ought to get you a specially sized gimmee cap like this one," he said, grinning at his stepson. "How would you like that?"

Nick's happy smile and exuberant bouncing was a clear answer to the question, and James put him down, giving him a little swat as he went to hug his mother goodbye.

Cecelia came out of the front drawing room then, a bit breathless from trying to keep up with her great-grandson. "Well, Alexandra, you're looking lovely."

Alexandra flushed. She had picked out a simple white silk strapless dress for the occasion, and had finally found a silk gardenia to wear in her hair. A light blue wrap would complete the outfit for tonight, and it brought out her blue eyes, turning them almost violet. She had to admit she looked rather nice, in spite of her building nervousness. She just hoped she could continue looking at least vaguely serene. She began wringing her hands nervously, but saw that James was holding his hand out to her. "Ready?"

"Yes. I…I think so."

* * *

Murdock dropped Alexandra off at the Savoy, where he was greeted by Hannibal and a tall red-headed woman whom he didn't recognize. At first, he started back out the door after pecking Alexandra on the check, but he did a delayed double-take and turned back to have another look, and trotted back into the famous hotel's lobby. "Who's this?" he asked, pointing his chin at the red-head, who looked amused.

Hannibal actually looked _defensive_. "Katherine. McKenzie. Katherine McKenzie."

"So nice they named you twice, huh?" Murdock grinned at her, and she grinned back.

"You told me he was a charmer," she said, shaking Murdock's hand. "It's very nice to meet you."

"Yeah…uh…wow, Hannibal. I thought you were sort of like G.I Joe – only hung out with guys, played with guns…had no idea you played _doctor_."

"Shaddup, will you? She's…we're…uh…kind of…"

"Involved," Katherine rolled her eyes. "John, for God's sake, I'm over forty. Don't worry, Captain, I'm just using him for sex."

Murdock snorted with laughter. "'bout time somebody did - he's been known to push cars home, rather than drive 'em. Good Lord, Hannibal, we'd better get a job soon or we'll all be goin' soft. I've nearly forgotten how to operate an S&W."

"I'll look into it, but I'm enjoying this vacation, and so are Face and B.A. – they're driving around the Peaks or something – I have no idea. I'm sure they're both as lost as geese by now, and since neither of them savvy the local lingo, they're also probably very confused as well. I guess you're here for some business with Collingwood?"

"Right. _Big_ business. I'll tell ya 'bout it later. Hey, listen, Collingwood's havin' a formal dinner tonight, and I'd like it if all of y'all could be there. You too, ma'am," he said, nodding to Katherine. "Free grub, with a ninety-percent chance of late afternoon hullabaloo and evening hostility. Should be fun!"

* * *

Collingwood's fiberoptics empire was apparently extremely successful, but the office building was astonishingly simple. It was housed in a large sandstone Victorian mansion, and inside everything was mahogany and antiques and hushed refinement. Paintings worth more than most of the choppers Murdock had ever flown lined the walls, and he recognized a Monet as he strolled through the main lobby to what looked like an executive secretary's desk. He was greeted by a smartly-dressed woman who asked him his name in a razor-sharp Scottish accent.

"James Murdock," he answered, checking his father's watch for the time.

"Oh. Sir Henry is expecting you. He'll be pleased you're early, sir."

"I'm sure he's practically lactating with joy. I know I am!"

After giving him a narrow look, she directed him to an overstuffed chair, and he sat down, crossing his knees and flipping through an in-house magazine. He learned that Sir Henry had inherited a multi-million dollar fortune from his father in the late nineteen-sixties and had got on the information superhighway and turned that fortune into some respectable money. Collingwood, Ltd. was involved in computers and communications mainly, but was expanding into arms research and even manufacturing, which peaked Murdock's interest a bit. They were starting to build ships for the British Navy, and were apparently making quite a pretty penny for the work. Collingwood's fortune was heading from a mere four billion pounds to something kind of _serious_.

The secretary cleared her throat, and Murdock glanced up at her. She nodded to him and pressed a button on her phone. "Sir Henry, Mr Murdock is here."

"Captain Murdock," the pilot corrected her, standing up. "Is he ready for an audience with li'l ol' plebian me?"

She nodded and stood, walking to a pair of heavy oak double doors. She pulled them open and stepped into Collingwood's office. "Sir Henry, Captain Murdock."

Murdock stepped around her, blinking as the sunlight behind his grandfather-in-law's chair blazed into his eyes. Oh, so it's that strategy, he thought as he took a seat in a chair opposite the old man. He let his eyes adjust and noted that Collingwood looked awfully vigorous for a dying man. Just like Al Meghrahi, he thought with a barely-suppressed snicker. He looked around the room, narrowing his eyes a little to make out the name of the horse in the classic conformation portrait on the north-side wall: Persimmon.

"Captain. I was expecting to see you sooner," Collingwood snapped, as soon as the secretary had closed the doors. "And where is Alexandra? I gather she is at my house now, with my great-grandson."

"Nope. Nick's still at the castle and Alexandra's got a posh suite at the Savoy. Thanks for that, by the way, and the boys are havin' a ball there, too, and they extend their whole-hearted gratitude. She'll be gettin' a full spa treatment, and so will Hannibal's girlfriend."

Collingwood's eyes narrowed. "The invitation for tonight was for you and Alexandra _and_ Nick!"

"And we chose to leave Nick at home, and we will both be at the Savoy. And my friends will be comin' to dinner tonight, too, so have the cook add water to the soup."

Collingwood looked extremely displeased now, but he seemed to finally wrestle that away and settled back in his chair. "Fine. We'll work that out later, I'm sure. In fact, I think we can come to an agreement, Captain Murdock."

"Can we? About what?" Murdock crossed his knees again and sat back in his chair. He squared his shoulders, settled his gaze on the old man, and got ready.

"I am willing to offer you twenty _million_ pounds to annul this marriage."

Murdock smiled. "Really? Just twenty mil'?"

"All you have to do," Henry said, pulling manila envelope out of his drawer, extracting a piece of paper from it and laying it on the table, in front of Murdock, "Is sign this agreement and I will make an _immediate_ electronic transfer of the funds from my account to yours. Sign it and walk away, and it's all yours."

"Really? That simple, huh?" Murdock looked down at the paper, reading through the agreement. "Make it thirty million and I'll be happy to sign."

Collingwood finally looked pleased. Murdock pulled out his wallet and found his account information – it was the first bank account he'd had in several years, and had been set up shortly after receiving the quarter-million dollars from Collingwood for finding Alexandra in the first place. He scribbled out his bank information, and handed it over. The old man picked up the phone and dialed a number, settling back and talking briefly to an accountant named Peter, going over the details. "I will call you back as soon as things are settled." He hung up.

"Now…you said thirty million?"

"Yep. I want thirty million for my trouble. To the Bank of California. You got the account number. And it'll be transferred over just like that?" Murdock snapped his fingers. Collingwood nodded, his eyes blazing. "And as soon as your flunkey hits 'transfer', the money will be in my account, eh?"

"Indeed. It's very simple. Automatic electronic funds transfer, Captain. And I'll finally be rid of _you_, thank God, and I'm sure Alexandra will be interested to know that you have a price."

"Aw, hell, Hank, ever'body has a price. Where do I sign?"

Collingwood leaned forward and tapped the dotted line.

"Do I date it, too?"

"Yes!"

Murdock re-read the document. It was an interesting agreement, he thought. Lots of legalese, with several 'heretofores' and 'in so much as'es. The bit about non-consummation and incompatibility were included, which hardly surprised him. After reading it over, he put it back on the table, snatched up a solid-gold Jaguar pen from Collingwood's desk and scrawled on the dotted line, dating it as well.

He handed the paper back to the old man, holding his gaze. Sir Henry, barely even blinking, slipped the paper back into the manila envelope, pushing the clasp shut and putting it back in his drawer. He sat back in his chair, looking pleased, and called his accountant again. "Peter, I want thirty million dollars transferred immediately to Captain Murdock's account in the Bank of California. Yes, right _now_. No, I am not joking, you bloody twit! Transfer it! Now!" There was a brief wait, and Collingwood nodded. "Cleared and posted, Captain. I suppose we should make the announcement this evening, then?"

"Yeah. Sounds good to me. I'll get packed and will be flyin' home tomorrow mornin'." He stood up, and held out his hand to Collingwood. The English aristocrat finally stood and shook Murdock's hand. The pilot grinned at him, gave him a jaunty salute, and left. It was the easiest money he'd ever made in his life. All from just signing a piece of paper!

Face was gonna _flip_.

* * *

Murdock called his bank while in the cab. "Uh…yeah. Well, it was a business transaction. Yeah…oh-seven-six-nine-seven-three-nine-two…maternal grandmother's maiden name?…er…Cantrell. Eh? Oh. Baseball… second-grade teacher? Miss Hartnell…hm…well, until a couple'a nights ago, flyin' choppers. Right. So it's been transferred? Huh. Ain't technology amazin'? Thanks. Adios!" He hung up and sat back in the seat, thinking, until the cab stopped.

Getting out at the Savoy, he saw Face and B.A. going in and bounced up to them, grinning. "Hey, y'all go scrub down and get dressed up. We're dinin' uptown tonight!"


	22. Presenting: Freddy Peterson

**TOUCHED**

Chapter 22

**Rating**: K++ (not quite T…?)

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

* * *

Murdock nearly busted his leg on a housemaid, apologizing profusely to the alarmed woman before finally hunting down the room he and Alexandra were sharing at the Savoy. He gave the door a sound thrashing as the maid limped away, and his wife answered. Her smile made the pain in his leg vanish immediately, and he gave her a buss on the cheek. "How ya doin', baby? Been squeezed and massaged by a tall Swedish woman named Helga? 'Cause it'd better not've been tall a Swede named Sven, lemma tell ya."

"I am in excellent health, thank you, sir, and I would never allow another man to touch me, Swedish or not," she answered, before giving him a slow, deep kiss that made him wish he didn't have to sit down to a grim meal with Ebenezer Scrooge reincarnated, but it had to be done. He pulled her to him, kicking the door shut as he kissed her hungrily. She lazily wreathed her arms around his neck and kissed him again, loving the scent of his aftershave and the ever-present touch of stubble on his jaw. "Hmm…we have three hours before time to head off to Knightsbridge. What_ever_ shall we do?"

She was wearing only a luxurious cotton bathrobe, having just gotten back from the day spa at the hotel, where she and Katherine had been all but dipped in chocolate and covered with chopped peanuts in the hotel's efforts to reduce them to quivering mounds of spoiled-rotten dissipation. Murdock breathed in the scent of expensive lotions and creams, and lifted a strand of her dark hair, smelling jasmine, before kissing the still moist lock. "Mm. I think I can come up with a thing or two."

"Just two?" she murmured, guiding him toward the bed and letting him divest her of the bathrobe.

"Well…four or five, definitely. But you know me…I hate quickies. I much prefer…longies…"

"Oh, so do I…" she said, pushing his jacket off and pulling him down into the bed with her. "So do I."

* * *

The four men, Katherine and Alexandra met in the hotel lobby, and they all studied each other, each feeling varying degrees of apprehension. Alexandra looked glorious in white and blue, while Katherine (best described, to Murdock's mind, as 'built for pleasure' but also apparently quite good-humored; she was, according to Hannibal, the widow of Army officer and had two teenaged sons) was wearing a red and black silk Chinese-patterned dress and black stilettos – she looked like a million bucks, and from the way she and Hannibal kept looking at each other, they had recently enjoyed a 'longie' too, back in their room.

Face and B.A. had apparently just stayed in their respective rooms after returning from their dazed and confused tour of the Peaks, and played video games. Murdock felt sort of sorry for them, actually, and sensed that his friends were getting restless. Vacations are good things, but over-long vacations can get dull for men who live for action and adventure.

The guys were all wearing tuxedos. Armani for Face, Hannibal and B.A., and Hugo Boss for Murdock, and the women had giggled when they all came into the hotel lounge where they were waiting, agreeing that all four men were as well suited for the James Bond look as they were for fatigues. "I feel like I oughta be dealin' cards in Monte Carlo," Murdock said, tugging a little at the tie, but Face slapped his hand.

"Don't mess that thing up," Face ordered. "It took me ten minutes to get that thing straight. Mainly 'cause you kept jumpin' around. What's gotten into you, bud?"

"Nothing." Murdock grinned and sat down on the sofa next to Alexandra, who had crossed her legs and was wringing her hands. As the others started leaving, he looked at her and took her hand, touching her wedding ring – the one his mother had worn during her eleven-month marriage to his father. "Listen to me for a minute, baby."

She looked up at him, and seeing his serious expression, frowned, her nervousness growing. "Yes?"

"Whatever happens tonight, I want you to promise me something."

"Oh? O-Okay…"

"Have faith."

"Faith?"

"You know…faith. _The evidence of things hoped for, the proof of things not seen_." He grinned at her. "Spent a lot of time in cheap motel rooms. Read a lot of Gideon Bibles. Memorized most of the Bible, like Sky Masterson. They'd go off to do recon, and I'd sit there and read the Good Book while they thought I was talkin' to invisible dogs. Anyway, I want you to promise me that you'll keep the faith."

"What have you got planned, James?" she asked him cautiously.

"Like I said, Alexandra. _Faith_. Pinkie swear?"

"What?" She looked confused, and he held up his pinkie. Tentatively, she held up hers, and he hooked their fingers together and gave her a kiss.

"Now…off to the dragon's lair!" He helped her to her feet and put her hand over his arm. "Are you ready?"

She smiled at him. "Ready, Freddy."

He grinned at her, and she laughed.

* * *

Alexandra paled as the limousine stopped outside her grandfather's mansion. It was a huge, solid-white marble thing, patterned after Kedleston Hall and twice as imposing. The media, in its frenzy over the custody battle over her between her grandfather and the Earl of Eddington, had called Colecort 'Coldheart', and it was an apt description. The front windows were blazing with light, giving the mansion an eerie look in the last light of the day. Standing at the front door, wearing a sharp tuxedo, was the familiar Hulme, her grandfather's major-domo and a man Alexandra had disliked intensely as a child but had actually come to appreciate over the years. Hulme had, after all, been the one who sent her secret letters to her father and stepmother, and had snuck their letters to her. He was as scrupulously honest as her grandfather was cold and unfeeling. Sometimes, she wondered why Hulme continued working for him. He had explained once that someone had to take care of the mansion and that he got to read while waiting for the old man while driving the limousine. It was an easy job and he had built a nice little nest egg over the years, listening to Henry do stock trades over the phone in the limo. Sir Henry would buy, Hulme would by. Sell, and Hulme would sell. Last she heard, the butler-cum-chauffer had about two million pounds in the Bank of England and was just two years away from retirement. If her grandfather had known, he'd probably have a stroke.

She allowed B.A. to help her out of the limo, and smiled at the heavily-muscled Ranger, who looked uneasy in his tuxedo. "Don't fret, Sergeant," she told him. "You look very handsome. I'm surprised you haven't found a nice little lady around here so far."

"Ah, hell, ma'am…" he said, blushing. "I ain't lookin', really…"

"Well, it's when you're not looking that you find the right one. Isn't that how it goes?" she asked him, brushing his lapels and looking over his shoulder at her husband. He grinned shyly and gave James a glower when he caught the pilot smirking at him. James took her arm, gave her fanny a little squeeze, and started up the steps, with Hannibal and Katherine behind them and Face and B.A. trailing behind, bickering about some kind of misadventure in the Peaks, where one of them had apparently fallen off a rock and had to be rescued by a group of uniformed schoolchildren, the other having been rendered so helpless by laughter that he was useless in the operation.

Hulme greeted Alexandra warmly, and shook hands with James after giving him a searching look. "Miss Alexandra, you are looking well, and it's so nice to see you again. Your grandfather is in the library. Dinner is at six o'clock. Duck a l'orange for main course, and crème brulee for dessert. Chef Louis is in a bit of a temper tonight, so watch for bones and French profanity."

James looked interested. "French, huh? _Peut-il faire les canards danse a peut-peut le faire_?"

Hulme looked startled, and James snickered as he went into the house.

Alexandra rolled her eyes and stepped into the foyer. A black and white checkered marble floor and a pair of sweeping staircases lead up to the second story. A priceless crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling above them, and Alexandra noted that it had been cleaned recently, so that it sparkled as it shimmered in the light. In fact, the house seemed much cleaner than usual. She wondered if her grandfather had gone ahead and set up the room for Nick, and glanced at James.

Have faith, she thought. What did that mean?

She had to be gently prodded to follow Hulme down the long hallway to the library. Everyone else was guided toward the lounge, but Henry apparently wanted to make sure they had both come. She didn't feel too faithful when she saw her grandfather's apparent pleasure when they came in, or the way he was smirking as he offered them both claret. Something was _off_, but for the life of her, she couldn't figure out what. James refused the offer of the drink and said he wanted to eat some orange duck. "Then I want some blue duck. Oh, wait…that's just a villain in _Lonesome Dove_. How's shakes, Hank?"

* * *

Dinner was just as grim as Alexandra expected it to be. The duck a l'orange was decent, the cold soup nerve-wracking, and the crème brulee made her teeth rattle. She had gotten used to James's cooking, and even when it was downright adventurous, it was far better than this. Conversation was stilted, too. Sir Henry asked a few barely polite questions about everyone's health, and they all ate in general silence, only murmuring answers to questions. Dinners had always been like this at Colecort. Always. Evening meals were followed by the ladies leaving the gentlemen to after-dinner port and then it was an interminable wait in the lounge for bedtime, the clocks ticking down each hour until eleven o'clock, when everybody would file upstairs and bed, so they could rise again for another endless day.

Not surprisingly, James soon looked like he was bored to tears. Alexandra knew by now that when her husband was bored, he started looking for entertainment – his was simply far too agile a mind to tolerate doing _nothing_ for long. He was gathering several peas into a spoon and preparing them for launch onto B.A.'s gleaming white tuxedo shirt when Alexandra caught his eye and shook her head. He frowned at her and put the spoon down.

Sir Henry finally cleared his throat once the dessert dishes were cleared away. He ordered all the servants out of the dining room as well, and sat back in his chair. He extracted a manila envelope from under the tablecloth and held it up as he stood. "I didn't actually appreciate Captain Murdock inviting his friends here for dinner, but now I think about it, it's rather a good idea after all. Do any of you know what's in this envelope?"

"I know!" James said cheerfully. "You just won ten million dollars from the Publisher's Clearing House! Congratulations, man!" He toasted Henry with his glass of port and tossed back the dark liquid, smiling across the table at Alexandra. "I never did believe in those things, y'know? Figured it was useless to send the info back at all. 'Sides, I was always kind of hard to track down."

Collingwood did not look amused. Alexandra took a sip of her after-dinner port and sighed. James was right across from her and looked impressive in his tuxedo, even if he was obviously uncomfortable. She was rather looking forward to taking it off him, however. Bit by bit, and driving him crazy while she did it. In fact, she considered staying at Colecort tonight and having vigorous sex with her husband in the bedroom she had slept in as a child. That would the servants talking, and would definitely rankle her grandfather's nerves.

"Actually, I have in this envelope a particular document. A very _important_ document."

"Oh? Well, spill it, Hank," James said. "Hey, Hannibal, pass the port, would ya?"

Hannibal slid the carafe of port down to James, and he refilled his glass.

"In this envelope is an agreement your _'husband'_ Captain Murdock signed this afternoon in my office." Henry smiled for the first time all evening, and took a drink of port. "He has accepted thirty million dollars from me to annul his marriage to you, Alexandra."

She stared across the table at James, whose steady gaze held hers for the briefest of moments before her vision blurred. "A-Annulled…?"

Everyone else froze, bewildered. Face started to say something, but B.A., across from him, gave him a look that indicated that he should shut his yap. The conman looked at James, who was still watching Alexandra, not moving, his expression inscrutable.

"Yes, _annulled_. Due to non-consummation and incompatibility, obviously, but also because of his greed. Face it, Alexandra, he's nothing more than a gold-digger. Only in it for the money, and now he's got thirty million dollars to just…walk away." Collingwood nodded at Alexandra, making a sweeping gesture with his arm and looking smugly triumphant.

Alexandra's head was spinning. The world was crashing down all around her, causing a dreadful roaring in her ears. Her vision was so blurred from hot, stinging tears that she gave up trying to look at her husband – her soon-to-be former husband – and could only stare down at her white, clenched hands. She was going numb, starting at her feet and working up, until she wasn't sure she would be able to stand up. How could she have been so _stupid_…?

"Yeah, it was one hell of a deal, lemme tell ya," James was saying, and she finally managed to look up at his still blurry figure across the table. "Just sign on the dotted line and within just a few minutes, I've got thirty million bucks in my account."

"Thirty million…" Face gasped. "Are you _kidding_? Murdock, I can't…"

"Of course, it's kind of an interesting document. First, the whole thing about non-consummation…the marriage was actually consummated two nights ago. Probably before the ink was even dry after printin' up that little contract. And as far as incompatibility, we seem to be pretty compatible. We even like the same kinda cheese, don't we baby?" He winked at her, but Alexandra couldn't look at him any more. Had she been able, she would have gotten up and left. Left and gone back to Kedlington. Climbed into her bed and wept until there was nothing left of her but a pool of tears. Simon had broken her body, but James was breaking her _heart_. Didn't he know how much she loved him? Didn't he even _care_?

Collingwood didn't appear to be too interested in James's words. He took the contract out of the envelope and placed it on the table in front of Alexandra. "See? He signed it, young lady. And from henceforth, you will cooperate and live _here_, and so will my great-grandson, and even if you refuse to live here, my heir _will_, unless you're wanting another court battle…and you know I'll win. Even more, once this annulment has gone through, you'll let me introduce you to some _suitable_ gentlemen and after a proper time, you'll marry again and give me not only an heir, but a few spares as well. And Nicholas's name will be changed to Collingwood, too. No more of this ridiculous Graham business, obviously…"

"Course, it'd be kind of useful if you had read over the contract after I signed it," James said, still watching Alexandra, who was still struggling to keep from bursting into tears in front of the stunned group of people at the table. "Particularly before you had Peter or whatever his name was hit that 'transfer' button, eh?"

Sir Henry frowned. "What the bloody hell are you talking about, you blithering idiot?"

James grinned, amused. "Well, it's just that whenever I get somebody to sign somethin' for me, I make sure to check the signature before I take the next step forward. I mean…really, it's kinda like makin' love in an airplane bathroom…you're thinkin' that you're havin' a pretty good time, but you're also thinkin' that you really ought to be at the controls, y'know? I always make sure I'm at the controls before I do anything that'll cost me even so much as a nickle. 'Course, I'm Scottish, so I'm into pinchin' mah pennies," he said with a Scottish burr.

Alexandra wiped tears from her eyes, and accepted a handkerchief from Katherine, who murmured something about her mascara. She managed to get her vision cleared enough to read the document. She saw all the legal language, blinking back tears, until she came to the end. She saw her grandfather's signature…and then the name across from his. She squeaked and put her hand over her mouth, her sorrow and humiliation forgotten. Replaced by ringing bells and tears of something else entirely.

"What…what the bloody hell is she laughing at?" Henry snapped.

Alexandra was laughing so hard she couldn't speak. Face, seated next to her, snatched the document away and read it, and promptly collapsed into helpless peals of laughter.

"I mean, really, it's about keepin' your eye on your cards 'til the game is over," James said. Alexandra stared across the table at him, still laughing, still stunned, still reeling. "I woulda thought you'd know all about that, Hank, bein' a businessman an' all. I'm just a friggin' _pilot_ and I know to check the paperwork _first_."

She stared at her husband in utter amazement.

Alexandra Graham had married a _genius_.

B.A. snatched the paper from Face and read it, then started giggling. Hannibal grabbed it from him and read, and soon he too was giggling uncontrollably. He held his head in his hand for several moments, wheezing and struggling to regain his composure. "Sir Henry, I'm pretty amazed you didn't even look at this paper before now."

"Why should I look at the bloody paper? He signed it! He agreed!"

Katherine took the paper from Hannibal, glanced at it and joined in the gigglefest before handing it back to Collingwood.

"See, I was kinda countin' on you thinkin' the game was up," James told Collingwood. "I pushed for thirty mil', and that really got you all cock-a-hoop, lemme tell ya. You thought you had it all wrapped up with a neat little green and white bow, huh? That I had a price." He snickered. "But one thing I learned from runnin' scams with Face here was that if you're gonna scam somebody you've got to make them think they're winnin'. Hold their stare until it's too late for 'em to go back, and don't count the money 'til you've left the table and are in the getaway car."

Collingwood, still holding the paper, finally looked down at it, reading until he got to the bottom. His pale face slowly turned red and then a strange shade of purple as he saw the signature. He sat down and pounded his fist on the table, one, two, three times before suddenly standing up and storming from the room, his cane forgotten.

Everyone in the room was staring at James, who shrugged and picked up a spoonful of peas, contemplated launch once again, but decided against it without Alexandra even having to give him a warning shake of her head.

"Gee, you'd think losin' a paltry thirty mil' would only feel like one tiny drop out of a big bucket," James said at last, shaking his head and shrugging modestly.

Hannibal picked up the paper and flapped it at Alexandra, who was still giggling. She was in a state of euphoria, not sure what to do or say any more, or even really what to think. The shock followed by such hysteria was proving too much. She put her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands, letting her tears flow unabated as she laughed. Everyone stared at her, waiting, until she was more or less finished.

"Well…" James finally said, once the waterworks were turned off and she blew her nose, wiping her eyes with another kerchief from Katherine. "I thought about signin' it 'Captain Daffy Duck', but I always liked him more than Donald, since Donald was always walkin' around wearin' a sailor suit, and I don't like the sea at all. So I figured that Donald was more suitable. It was kinda weird, though. Not even the Ninth District Court of Appeals can make a marriage between a cartoon character and a human woman _legal_, much less annul it, though I'm sure one day they'll give that one the old college try." He drank down the last of his port. "But you know me…weird is my middle name. Well, actually, it's Quinn. Then again, people call me Howlin' Mad. Either way, there was no way I was gonna sign my name to a contract like that. Annul my marriage. As _if_! I mean, I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid!"

"But you managed…managed to bilk a multi-billionaire out of thirty _million_ dollars?" Face asked him, eyes wide with astonishment.

"Yeah. Auto transfer, too. He can't take it back – it's posted already, in my account. If he tried to take me to court, it'd just be a lot of embarrassment for him, wouldn't it?" He put the glass aside, and studied Alexandra, who was still sitting with her hands over her face. "Did you really think I'd annul this marriage?"

She uncovered her face, and finally looked at him. "I…"

"Didn't I tell you to have faith in me, baby? Didn't I say I'd never let any harm befall you? Huh?" He tapped his temple with his index finger. "Remember that. Always."

"Did you…did you plan all that?" Face asked him, when he managed to recover a little.

"Well…yeah. I mean, it wasn't really planned when I got there. But when he pulled out that document, I nearly crapped myself, it was so easy to form the strategy. I mean, first of all, he'd've had to get a witness in there, too, to make it really legal, but even then I'd have still signed 'Donald Duck' and told him to go to hell. No way in hell am I annulin' this marriage or gettin' a divorce. I may come from hillbillies, but they were hillbillies that stayed married, through thick or thin, and usually for them it was as thin as paper. Thirty million makes things a lot thicker'n any Murdock I heard of ever havin', that's for sure. Money can't buy happiness, but it keeps a lotta misery at bay, if you handle it right."

"So you're…" Alexandra finally whispered.

"I'm…?" James leaned forward a bit.

"You're not…not going to…to annul the marriage?" She wanted to be sure of what she was hearing. She wanted to hear it straight from him, with no doubts remaining.

"Now why would I do that?" he asked, looking exasperated. "I love you. Geesh, you didn't know that?"

She blushed and started giggling again. "Oh…well…you never did actually say…"

"Right. Damn! I didn't, did I?" He stood up suddenly, used his chair to climb up onto the table, and walked across to her, toeing plates and platters aside. No else at the table looked terribly surprised. In fact, from the look on everybody's face – even Katherine's – this was something he apparently did rather frequently. He jabbed his thumb behind him and narrowed his eyes at Face. "Beat it!" The conman jumped to his feet and climbed onto the table, walking across and taking Murdock's place. He grabbed the bottle of port and Murdock tossed him his glass before sitting down beside Alexandra. Face poured himself a refill and took a sip, grinning like a shark.

"I'm sayin'. I'm sayin' that I love you. Probably have since I first met you back in Hong Kong, but that's a bit far-fetched, since I didn't know you, but I did…you know…_want_ you. And then I married you and fell for ya for real." He glanced around the table at four raised eyebrows, and rolled his eyes. "Like a sack of birdseed."

"Oh." She turned even pinker. "Well."

"Well?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I know when I fell for you."

"When?"

"When you kissed me…the first time, I mean. When you kissed me on the cheek, after you gave me this ring," she said, holding up her hand and showing him his mother's wedding ring. "It was like Mickey and Minnie, you know? The little butterflies started fluttering and the little hearts went 'pop pop pop' and I was a goner."

"Oh. Yeah. Well." He glanced at their grinning audience again and shrugged. "So you…uh…?"

"I love you."

"More'n your luggage?"

She burst into laughter. "More than my luggage. More than anything."

"More than Freddy Peterson?"

"Who the hell is Freddy Peterson?" Face interjected, unable to bear it any more.

"That's what we named it," James informed the conman, who looked confused for a moment until Hannibal nudged him. He continued to look bewildered until it suddenly hit him. He started snickering, and was joined by Hannibal and soon, the others.

Face pulled himself together at last. "Okay. That's cleared up. Please, do go on. This is better than _Days of Our Lives_."

"Shaddup, Facey. Take a lesson here. If ya love your woman, tell her. They kind of appreciate the actual words, or so I'm told."

"I certainly do," Alexandra said, knowing her cheeks were nearly red, and her eyes were puffy from crying. "And I love you even more than Freddy Peterson. You introduced me to him, anyway."

He snickered. "And you think you can take all the…you know…crazy? 'Cause it won't ever leave, baby. It'll be around for good, off and on, and to varying degrees. But I'm not goin' anywhere, without you. I can't. I'd have to be crazy, to ever fall out of love with you. I ever say I that I don't love you, you can lock me away."

They were both startled by a chorus of 'Aww's from their audience. James glared at them all, and Alexandra giggled again. She touched his cheek. "I can take it. You know I have my own crazy. Crazy's good. Keeps you sharp."

"So I guess we should all quit this place and go back to the Savoy, eh?" he looked around the dining room, and they all nodded. They all got up, glancing toward the door where Henry had exited, and looked at each other.

"Should we say g'bye?" James asked. Off their glares, he spread his arms. "I can't help it – I'm from the South. It's just good manners."

"Manners, schmanners," Face grunted, shaking his head. "I don't need to see that old coot again, and don't want to. Let's _go_. I…I think I'm gonna call Charissa, and…hey, just mind your own damn business, okay?" he snapped off James's knowing look.

"Aww…Facey's going to declare his undying love," James informed Alexandra, helping her to her feet. "Okay, so maybe just his momentary love."

Face glared at him and they all left the room. Out in the hallway, Hulme presented Alexandra with her wrap, and off his inquiring look, she smiled. "Thank you, Hulme. The meal was fine. Grandfather is probably upstairs in his room. Possibly drinking heavily."

"Quite right, Miss. Good evening, all of you. I must say you are all quite entertaining dinner guests!"

* * *

They were both too tired for any more lovemaking, at least for a while. Alexandra stretched out on top of him, kissing his chin and sighing. "You put me through quite a lot tonight, Captain. I wonder how I ought to punish you for that."

His expression was unrepentant, and he gave her a wicked grin. "I figured that it was a good time to stake my proverbial claim, I guess," he finally shrugged. "Hey, I took drama in high school – I know about droppin' the bomb at just the right moment – timing is everything. Decided it was time to karpe myself some deum and go for it, and do it when it counted. I had to make sure you knew for sure – faithful 'til death, that's me."

She stacked her hands on his chest and propped her chin on them, looking down into his eyes. "And with it, you got thirty million dollars."

"Eh…that wasn't the point. I don't care about money. Never did, and it never cared about me, though it's certainly good to have. I just know where I'm s'pposed to be now. If you can handle me, that is. It's not gonna be easy. I won't lie to you. I will have my moments. Episodes…"

She pressed a finger to his lips. "I don't expect it to be. And I'm not qualified to try and fix you. But I know you're a lot better. You're confident in yourself now. Maybe you even like yourself a bit?" Off his embarrassed nod, she smiled. "Though I do love your lack of ego, I must say. Still so shy…I still get that look whenever I tell you you're sexy. You still _blush_. I've considered a drinking game about that."

"You blush a lot too, baby. Of course, you're not quite accustomed to ribald comments about your breasts. But please…ixnay on the inkingdray, please. I mean, yeah, you're a fun, horny drunk, but I prefer sex with you when you're stone sober and remember where everything _is_."

"I suppose I should consider laying off the liquor, for your sake, Captain," she said with a haughty little waggle of her head. She sighed and dropped her cheek to his chest, slipping her arms up, caressing his hair and listening to his steady heartbeat. "I'll be happy to blush for the rest of my life, James. So long as you're the one making me do it."

He gave her a sleepy bearhug, and she yawned before kissing the scar above his heart. "Am I boring you?"

"That, Captain Murdock, will _never_ happen."


	23. Epilogue  Matters of Life and Death

**TOUCHED** Epilogue

Chapter 23

**Rating**: K++

**Author**: AlyshebaFan2

Well, it's been interesting. I've got another idea out there for a totally different sort of heroine, who will lock horns with Murdock before anything else happens, but that's for the future and it's not really _gelling_ (jelling?) at this point. So…back to the races for now!

* * *

The phone was ringing.

When they had returned to the mansion in Beverly Hills, after six pleasant weeks in England, Alexandra had been surprised one day to find her husband removing the telephone and the television from her – now _their_ – bedroom, stating firmly that he didn't believe either belonged in a bedroom. "That room," he had informed her loftily, while lugging the television into the room next door, "is for sleeping and sex. Period." She had warmed to the idea after just one night. If they wanted to watch television, they went downstairs. Of course, once Nick was in bed, the couch usually ended up covered with popcorn and various articles of clothing and they were both out of breath, whatever they had been watching completely forgotten.

The main inconvenience with not having a phone in their bedroom was that if it rang, one of them – or actually, James - was assigned the unenviable task of galloping downstairs to answer. James had set it to ring six times before voicemail picked up, but usually didn't get to it in time anyway, as he usually had to find a pair of shorts and _always_ tried to push the door open before remembering to pull. He would get to it at the sixth ring, standing in the kitchen in a pair of boxer shorts (usually on backwards) and growling because he'd bruised his hands trying get the damned door open.

They were both jerked out of a peaceful catnap, her head resting on his bare chest, by the insolent ringing of the phone. It had already rung three times by the time he got his shorts on, and Alexandra was giggling as he struggled _again_ to get the door open. "Pull, sweetheart!"

"_Nadafinga_!" he snapped back before finally getting it open and bounding out of the room. "I'm gonna take a dive down these stairs one day, I know it!" She held her breath as she heard him clattering down the steps, and only exhaled when she heard him racing across the living room and into the kitchen. She heard him bang his toe (again) on the threshold into the kitchen (followed by an expletive in some other tongue) and the phone rang the sixth time, switching to voicemail. She heard his shouted "Hello?" and then a silence and the beep of the machine being turned off. "Oh. Hello. Yeah. Who? Oh. Right. Sure. Thanks…hey, yer…uh…Lady…Countess-sh-…yes, I'm good. She's great, last I looked. He's asleep, I hope, but he's doing really well. No…no, it's…holy cra-…it's three in the morning. No, we were…um…awake, more or less… What? Are you…really? Okay, should I feign hysterical grief? No…well, yeah…well, I guess. Yes, yes, I'll tell her. Thank you…yer…uh…Cecelia. Right. Okay. Yes, ma'am. I will. Thanks. Yes, she'll call you. Right. Soon as possible."

A moment later, she heard him clattering back up the stairs. He appeared in the doorway, puffing a bit, and after closing the door, pulled his shorts back off and climbed into bed. She smiled at him and smoothed his wild hair out of his eyes. "I got some news for ya, baby," he told her, pulling her into his arms.

"Oh? What news?" She rested her head against his shoulder and breathed in his woodsy cologne. Barely eight weeks of marriage and she was already spoiled by him – sleeping in his arms every night (whenever they did actually _sleep_), eating wonderful meals, playing tag in the back yard with him and Nick, flying the Beaufighter around, talking about everything and only squabbling occasionally for the fun of it, so they could make up later. He had taken her up in a helicopter shortly after they had returned to California, and it had been exhilarating, and a learning experience for her as well: she finally understood how flight truly freed him from the psychological scars that would plague him for the rest of his life. She could only pray that she could make him anywhere near as happy as he was making her. When she saw his serious expression, however, her smile faded. "What? What is it?"

"Er…your…uh…grandfather died. About six o'clock last night. He fell off a balcony at his home in Scotland. Nobody really knows what happened. He was alone in the castle, more or less, and…well, he did have osteoporosis somethin' awful, according to your grandmo-…"

"He's really dead?" she whispered, sitting up. She turned the bedside lamp on. It had taken her a while to convince James of the advantages of making love in the dark, though he still preferred to have the lights on. 'Sex by Braille' was, however, becoming a fun pastime for him. "Who found him?"

"Well…Cecelia said it was almost four hours before anybody came around, and they found him face-down on a bearskin. At first, they thought he was just takin' a nap, but nobody naps facedown on a bearskin. Those things _stink_ and are right uncomfortable, I can tell you, and then they saw the railing was broken and…"

"Oh, dear…" She pulled her silk robe on and he sat back, startled.

"You're getting dressed? For what?"

"Well… I know he caused me tons of trouble, and a great deal of grief, but I am his only living relative, so it's only…_decent_ that I see about the arrangements…"

"At three in the morning? Baby, we're in California. I doubt the funeral homes out _here_ are even open, and if one is, Norman Bates is runnin' it. C'mon, come back to bed."

She sighed and removed the robe again, slipping back under the sheets and snuggling up against him, letting his hands wander.

"James…"

"Sorry…er…you need to…uh…cry or something? 'Cause if you're gonna cry, I'll have to go in the other room. I can stand watchin' you cry."

"That's because when I cry, you start _laughing_!" she said, smacking him on the arm.

"I can't help it. You cry funny." He did a more than passable imitation of her weeping, and she gave him an exasperated look, shaking her head. "Well, you do! I mean, you don't do it often. You don't even cry when you hit your toe on the threshold into the kitchen. I hit it all the time…"

"And curse in Swedish."

"Finnish."

"Right. When was the last time you cried?"

"When you denied me _sex_!" he growled.

"When have I ever denied you sex?" she asked him, only resisting a little when he began pulling her back to him, moving his hand between her legs. "James!"

"Mmm…just the right temperature…"

"Scoundrel!"

"Saucy little tart…c'mere, baby…raise my temperature…"

"My grandfather just died!" she said weakly, tipping her head back to let him kiss her throat.

"He's not in here, is he?"

"Certainly not!" she gasped, losing any semblance of self-control. Resisting James was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a child's shovel. She hadn't figured how yet, and frankly, Alexandra had no interest in ever learning.

"Good. Besides, when people die, the survivors frequently have sex, because it…mm…reaffirms life…or the joy of…uh…what were we talkin' about? Never mind. Dribble off them Bobbie Brooks, baby, an' let me do what I please…"

"I'm not wearing Bobbie Brooks!" she squealed, slipping her arms around his neck and surrendering completely as he moved her onto her back.

"Or anything else. Ain't life wonderful?"

* * *

Alexandra looked fabulous in black.

She was wearing a black silk dress, with black silk stockings and a hat with one of those veil things that made him think of chicken wire, and she was standing in front of the mirror, studying herself pensively. He was sitting on her bed, having been ordered to sit absolutely still so as to not wrinkle his suit. The funeral was exactly three hours away and most of Britain's press would be there, it seemed. The chief mourner would be – as the press had put it – Collingwood's granddaughter Lady Alexandra Murdock, who would be present with her husband Captain James Murdock and her own son Nicholas Graham. She had considered informing the Collingwood Ltd PR rep that Nick's name was being changed to Murdock, as soon as the adoption went through, but had decided it would just cause a ruckus.

They were at Colecort House in Knightsbridge, having arrived in London at four that morning, as she had decided they should just take a red-eye from L.A.. The couple had driven to the mansion in a driving rain and collapsed into the bed she had slept in as a girl and gone right to sleep, too exhausted to even fool around a little. She had awakened at the crack of dawn and started making a list of all the things that had to be done. That had been two days ago, and Murdock still felt a bit jetlagged. She, however, was strangely full of energy, and last night she had actually worn _him_ out. That morning, however, she looked tired and seemed kind of listless, which concerned him.

"Do I look grief-stricken enough, or do I look like I'm jumping up and down yelling 'Yippee!'?" she asked him, turning to look at him directly.

He snickered. "Did you ever see that movie…_Fierce Creatures_? Same cast as _A Fish Called Wanda_, oddly enough, and when the old billionaire died, lots of folks were practically wettin' their pants with glee. You, however, look _appropriate_ – neither happy nor sad. Just…appropriate."

"I don't recall seeing that movie," she said. She took the hat off and took her hair down, retwisting it and pinning it again, but looking exasperated when she checked herself in the mirror. "I hate my hair!"

"You've fixed your hair six times already, baby. Keep at it, and you won't have any _left_. And that's the difference between women and men right there – we men never say anything ugly about our hair, 'cause it might get up and leave."

She laughed softly and peered at herself in the mirror, trying to twist her hair a different way. "I'm nervous," she admitted. "I've never given a eulogy. And think about this – we'll be the only family members there. How sad, really – how would you feel if you died and nobody came to your funeral?"

"Well…I'm only speakin' for myself here, but I think being dead would be the bigger disappointment." He stood up and smoothed the crease in his suit pants. "Last time I attended a funeral, it was for some distant cousin of mine…no, not that one. He dies, all the Murdocks will gather for a Pants-Off Dance-Off, believe me. No, this was some other cousin, on my dad's side – the Ferguson side, that is. We're all sittin' there in the church, the preacher is trying to preach this backslidin', dippin'-didn't-take Baptist into heaven – seriously – and from the back of the _church_, we hear the sound of a beer can bein' opened…Pfffsssttt! It was Uncle Joe. Everybody looked at 'im, and he just goes 'What?' Really, that kind of thing happens in Texas _all the time_." He studied himself in the mirror, trying to settle his already unruly hair and straightening his tie.

Alexandra giggled. "Your family sounds like they're lot more fun than the Collingwoods, I will say." She finally stopping futzing with her hair and put her hat back on.

"This house is so _hot_," he said. "How can you stand it?"

"I try not to think about it. Grandfather was always complaining about being too cold," she said, turning to him and checking his collar and lapels, smoothing his shoulders and lapels.

"Well, he doesn't have to worry about being cold any more," Murdock said, but looked at her cautiously. He didn't want to upset her, but she smiled a little and gave him a kiss on the cheek, leaving a tiny bit of lipstick. She wiped it away with a handkerchief.

"I suspect he's quite warm now."

* * *

"How much is this coffin?" Murdock asked, horrified, as he looked around the room full of coffins. Alexandra had given him the task of picking out the casket, and he wished he had turned down the job. This guy was already creeping him out – he reminded him a lot of Lurch from _The Addams Family._

It was pouring rain outside. Thunder clapped, and the lights in the room dimmed. Murdock had to resist the urge to climb up Lurch, Bugs Bunny-style, and perch up there on his shoulders, trembling with fright. It was odd, to think about it, though. He hadn't had any strange urges to do anything really _weird_ in quite a while. Water balloon fights in the back yard, and whipped cream and strawberries in bed were about the wildest he'd gotten lately.

"Well, it's the newest model," Lurch – actually Mr Pollard – informed him. "It's the Eternal Sleepmaster Two-Thousand-Eleven, in fact. The silk was manufactured in a small village outside of Brussels. The wood is one-hundred percent mahogany, and see these handles? Eighteen-carat gold! The coffin is lead-lined…"

"Who're we buryin' here? Superman? How much?"

"And see the detailing here? The hand-stitching? It's masterful…"

"Listen, this was a mean, hateful old man who made everybody around him miserable. For all I care, you can put him out in the trash with his hat on. But his granddaughter is also my wife, and I'll be damned if this isn't all done properly. So tell me how much so I can get out of here?" Lightning flashed outside, followed by another bone-rattling roll of thunder.

"Er..nine thousand pounds, sir."

"Fine. Do you take Visa or MasterCard? Hurry up, dammit! The gremlin is on the wing!"

* * *

Alexandra had insisted that the media not be allowed into the chapel for the actual service, and so when she, Nick and James entered the little room after fighting their way through the crowd of shouting journalists, they were both startled to see that there was no one in there besides the vicar, who looked uncomfortable and very relieved to see them. The kindly-looking little man rubbed his hands together. "Captain and Lady Murdock…it's…well, it'll be a very quiet service."

"Yeah, I reckon it will be," James said, shaking the vicar's hand. "We'll just sit here for a bit – how long dya think we should hole up in here?" he asked Alexandra as he sat down beside her. He checked Nick to make sure the press hadn't traumatized the boy, but he was swinging his legs and looking around curiously, as if expecting a show rather than a funeral.

"Oh, fifteen or twenty minutes, I suppose. Maybe some of the press will get bored and leave."

"Don't count on that, baby." He grabbed a _Book of Common Prayer_ and flipped through it, but found it uninspiring and put it away. He grabbed a Bible instead. "I don't guess your grandfather was much of a believer, huh?"

"No. He didn't believe in God at all," she answered sadly. "He thought God was for fools."

James flipped to the Psalms and read aloud. '_The fool has said in his heart, 'There is no God'_.'

She laughed softly and leaned against his arm, resting her head against his shoulder and sighing. "I'm so glad you're here, James. So glad." He kissed her temple and hugged her.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the door to the chapel opened and a man in a dark suit came in. He didn't look familiar to either of them, and the vicar looked vastly relieved to see him. "Hello, sir, are you here for the service?"

"Yes, yes, I am," the man nodded, looking around in confusion at the empty pews. "I'm Henry Ketterman…"

"Well, it's very nice of you to be here, Mr. Ketterman. Uh…this is something of a truncated service, I have to say. Would you like to say anything?" The vicar looked hopeful – this was, apparently, the smallest funeral service he had ever presided over, and he was at a bit of a loss.

Henry Ketterman looked pleased to speak. He stood in front of the coffin, smoothing his tie and clearing his throat a few times, and looked at James and Alexandra. "Uh…hello. I just wanted to come here and say a few words about this man…about all the great things he's done for others - his tireless work on the behalf of the poor and downtrodden. His devotion to the betterment of others was truly remarkable!"

Alexandra looked at James, whose brow furrowed in equal confusion.

"Yes, this man…this man was a friend to all mankind. Kind and generous and unselfish. He would take a secret trip to Africa every year to help villagers dig wells, and spent thousands building schools and clinics in the poorest parts of the world. He contributed vast amounts of money to all kinds of worthy charities, particularly the Red Cross…but no one will ever know about all his hard work, because he made those donations _anonymously_. It almost makes me weep to think about, and now that he's dead…" Ketterman sniffled. "Yes, Charles Benedict truly loved all mankind. I'm just glad that at least now, someone knows…"

"Who?" James and Alexandra gasped in unison.

"Charles Benedict. Charlie was my best friend!" Henry smiled warmly.

"This isn't Charles Benedict's funeral, sir," Alexandra informed Henry, gesturing to the dark mahogany coffin. "This is my grandfather – Sir Henry Collingwood."

Just then, a man poked his head in the chapel door. "Uh…the Benedict funeral is down the hall…"

"Oh…oh, dear. I'm dreadfully sorry…I…" Henry started to make his exit, but stopped suddenly, halfway up the aisle. "Wait a minute…Sir Henry Collingwood, you said?"

"Yes," James said, blinking and shaking his head.

"You mean…Sir Henry Collingwood who ran Collingwood Limited and had that vast mansion in Knightsbridge…and that little pug dog?"

Alexandra nodded, remembering her grandfather's nasty, spoiled dog named Cecil. Easily the ugliest, most ill-tempered dog she had ever encountered.

Henry stalked back up the aisle, glared at the coffin, reared back and kicked it hard, growling angrily. He straightened his tie, turned to acknowledge the three startled people staring at him, and stalked out of the chapel.

The vicar, even more at a loss, looked at Alexandra. "Is there anything you'd like to say?"

"To an audience of two?" she asked.

"Well, might as well get it out of your system and over with, baby," James pointed out. He sat back in the seat, and she sighed and rolled her eyes. She got up and stood at the end of the aisle. Speaking in public had never bothered her much. She swallowed nonetheless. The vicar, nodding encouragingly, sat down behind James.

"My grandfather was a very hard, unfeeling, uncaring man," she said. "I refuse to lie about that, vicar," she said, nodding respectfully to the little man, who nodded back. "He mistreated his wife and his daughter, and when I experienced a terrible trauma, he refused to help me at all. He tore a family apart in his ambition to have his precious heir, and in the end, got nothing for it. If he had been just half as generous as the mysterious Mr Benedict, I think there would be a lot more people here today. But he wasted his life, and threw away the love anyone ever tried to give him. I won't pray for his soul – that's a useless occupation, because he knows his destiny now. As a child, I even tried to love him, to cling to him because he was the only thing I knew, but I soon learned that he didn't want love at all, and refused to give it – and wasn't it Oscar Wilde who said that love can be given or received, but that it can't be bought? He tried to buy lots of things, and lots of people, but love never was for sale from any of us, and I think that maybe that's what made him so angry: he couldn't buy our love. Anyway…I don't know what happened to him. I don't know why he became so hard and cold. No one will ever know, I suppose, except him. I think the lesson we can all learn from my grandfather is that we are given just a few years on this earth, and that we owe it to each other to not worry about money, or power, or prestige, or even our legacy. We can just do our best, and love our family and our friends and try to be a good influence on others. I suppose I can thank him for being the reason I ended up in Hong Kong in the first place – I met my husband there, and for that my life took a major turn for the better, and my son will grow up loved and secure as a result. So…wherever you are, Grandfather…as much pain and trouble you caused me, and so many others, I still wish you had learned that lesson before it was too late."

Alexandra caught James's smile and smiled back. The vicar stood and she went back to her seat. "Well…I suppose that will conclude this service, ma'am. Would you like to wait a few more moments?"

* * *

The graveside service ended up going viral, all because of a mud puddle.

It started raining shortly after they arrived at the cemetery, and so the cemetery was a sea of black umbrellas being held over film cameras of various news agencies from world over. The hiss of battery-operated lights and the whine of inflated egos could be heard from at least a mile away, with well-known journalists were standing around, getting wet and irritated in the mud. They were all hoping for something interesting to happen. They would not be disappointed.

Alexandra had decided that Nick really wouldn't profit much from attending such a ceremony, so he was sent back to Colecort with Cecelia, and would later voice great resentment at having missed the fun.

She and James walked across to the plot, mud splattering her shoes. James looked up when he heard the sound of the hearse's engine being gunned. Apparently, it was stuck in the mud, and several members of the press watched expectantly as the car lurched forward, wheels spinning for purchase in the grass and mud. The driver, growing frustrated, jerked the car into reverse, but apparently wasn't paying attention.

Every camera at the service caught the sequence of events. The hearse lurched back, its wheels slamming _hard_ into the curb. The back door of the hearse opened and the lead-lined, gold-handled mahogany coffin of Sir Henry Collingwood came flying out, sailing at least six feet over the grass and over a gravel path that led past the grave of one Iris McDonnell (1853-1932). It kept moving, actually gaining speed over the wet grass, finally slowing until it stopped just inches from the feet of Captain James Murdock, who spread his arms out and yelled "Safe!"

The press went wild, and that night on newscasts around the globe, the image of the flying coffin and the well-dressed man with unruly hair and green eyes calling a home run was being shown from Hong Kong to Johannesburg. Soon, the event was on YouTube. It earned two million hits in less than an hour. At the end of the year, a major network declared it the Most Memorable Moment of 2010.

Alexandra and James, meanwhile, went back to Colecort and had a quiet dinner together. He told her about an Irish wake he attended in Boston, where eventually someone ended up dancing with the corpse. "And no, oddly enough, I was not the one doin' the Graveside Two-Step. But the guest of honor had lipstick on her teeth and didn't care."

After dinner, with Nick tucked in for the night, the couple sat together in the silent living room, watching the fire and not talking. He seemed to sense that she needed some quiet. She settled back against him, sighing as his arms wrapped around her waist.

"James?"

"Mm?"

"What do we do now?"

"Do? What do you mean?"

"Well…we're still renting that mansion in Beverly Hills, but I can't imagine living there for the rest of my life. It's just not…home. I like a big house, but I'd rather live in something more manageable. With a big yard for Nick to run around in."

"No pool. I have no use for pools," he said, hugging her back against him. "But a creek'd be nice. With a bridge across it, so Nick can learn how to fish. Little boys need creeks – they can go huntin' for turtles and salamanders and the like. I had one…a creek, that is. On my grandparents' place in Llano. Found hellbenders and softshell turtles. Scared my granny half to death one day with a King snake."

She smiled, intertwining her fingers with his. "And a barn, too, so we can keep a horse or two."

"That'd be good. I reckon I can afford a horse."

"You can afford several horses!" she laughed.

"Yeah…and gum, too!" He pondered a moment. "Well, when we get back home, we'll look around. Outside of L.A. Far from L.A., preferably…but close to a therapist or two, I guess…" She leaned to the side and peered up at him, and he shrugged. "I suspect eventually, I'll…you know…just need…therapy. Or something. I get stressed, that's all."

"I know." She took his hand and kissed his knuckles. "Don't be afraid to tell me when you do, James. I want you to be happy and healthy. That's all I want, and I'll do whatever I can to keep you that way."

"Yeah. Me too, baby." He gave her another gentle squeeze, and she tilted her head back to receive his kiss.

"And we'll need several bedrooms, I think. Five or six for starters." She felt, rather than heard, him laugh. "What? You think that's funny?"

"We're puttin' in a tall order for a house, baby."

"There's so much to think about," she said, settling her head back against his chest. She felt his chin on top of her head, and smiled. "How many square feet we want. How many acres. What sort of neighborhood we want to live in, what sort of school Nick should go to. What kinds of horses to get…what to name the baby…all kinds of things."

"Mm. Yeah." He was quiet for several moments, and she could have sworn he had fallen asleep. But suddenly he jerked a bit. "What? Did you say 'baby'?"

"Mm-hm."

"Baby? You're…uh…"

"Yep. I'm a regular cup of _fecundity_, Captain. I think it was inevitable, anyway."

He was silent, and she knew he was thinking of all the problems that could come up. But she folded her fingers into his hand again. "Aren't you scared?" he finally asked.

"With you about? Why would I be scared?" she said softly. "This is going to be a healthy, beautiful baby."

"So long as it looks like you."

"If it's a boy," she said, snuggling into his gentle hug. "We'll name him James. James Graham Murdock. How does that sound? By the way…has anyone ever called you Jim?"

"Only once. But James sounds okay with me. And if it's a girl?"

"We'll have to bribe Nick with a _real_ chopper just to get him to speak to her at all. He has a low opinion of girls right now – though I dread the day he starts liking them. That'll be terrifying. And if it's a girl, we'll name her Alice. I've always liked that name anyway. I know I would have loved your mother."

"She'd've loved you, too. She tried to love everybody, no matter who they were, and you're remarkably easy to love, so it'd be a cinch. She lived by the Good Book, twenty-four-seven. Prayed for everybody. She even prayed for Democrats!" In spite of his joke, there was a slight tremor to his voice, and she blinked back her own tears. He had missed out on so much of his childhood. They both had, and it saddened her to think that their own parents were missing out on knowing their grandchildren. "How long have you known?"

"Oh…for a few days now. I went to a doctor yesterday afternoon. He said it was probably conceived back in late August – while we were at Keddlington."

"Wow. Had no idea those little dudes could move so fast! But we Murdocks have always been very potent," he said, sounding a bit smug.

She couldn't disagree with that – she had discovered his potency in more ways than one. Alexandra moved around so that she was facing him. "What do you really think about it, James?"

"I don't know what to think – right now, I'm just lettin' it sink in. I'm only just gettin' used to bein' a dad. But I guess I'll figure it out as I go along, like most folks do."

She sighed and nodded. "I'm still learning how to be a mother. It's not easy. But it's never boring." She cautiously extricated herself from his arms and stood up. He sat for a moment, staring up at her. "What?"

"You look different."

"I'll look much different nine months from now."

"A hot mama…yeah." He grinned at stood up. "How was your first pregnancy?"

"I cried when the _mail_ was late. Hallmark commercials…good heavens, they left me dehydrated. I had to make sure to avoid _Steel Magnolias_, or that would have _killed _me. So I suspect you're in for quite a time – be prepared! And the actual birth was rather painful, but remarkably easy just the same…I may not be terribly pleasant when the labor pains hit."

"Well, I won't lie to you, baby. I wouldn't want to go through it for you."

She gave him a light punch on the arm, squealing in surprise when he suddenly picked her up, one arm under her legs, one arm supporting her back, and she wound her arms around his neck. She rested her head on his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat.

"Hey," he said, giving her a little shake.

"Hm?"

"Smile big for daddy, eh?"

She smiled at him, and he grinned back, looking at her mouth. She looked down at his.

"Now act like you're havin' just a great big ol' _peck_ of fun. I won't let any harm befall you…I promise."


End file.
